


Hand to Hand Combat

by thwax



Series: Freehand Sequence [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, M/M, This story is set post OotP beware of SPOILERS, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-09
Updated: 2004-05-12
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 59,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6001048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thwax/pseuds/thwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This story was written and is set after Order of the Phoenix.</i><br/>Voldemort is dead, but his enemy’s destruction has cost Harry Potter dearly.  Yet, there is more to the consequences than Harry could have imagined.  His Muggle upbringing has left him ignorant of his new condition: there is someone who is more than willing to open his eyes just after his seventeenth birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Harsh Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broken, unable to cast magic, Harry has shut himself away from the wizarding world, so he is not expecting any visitors...

Harry slowly turned the soil and then planted the little seed he was holding in his hand; it wasn’t much, he wasn’t a good gardener, but as he watched the magically endowed shoot appear from the soil, he had to satisfy himself with knowing that this was as close to magic as he was going to get from now on. Harry Potter was a squib; of course, no-one was saying that, but that is what all the sympathetic stares meant, and the large handshake from the Ministry and the pension, ‘until he was well again’: that was not going to happen, he knew it inside, and at sixteen, facing a lifetime without the magic he had come to love had sent him running from everyone into this hermitage.

Harry Potter, as prophesied, had saved the world as they knew it, and it had destroyed him. The last spell he had ever cast had blown his nemesis into a million pieces, and his wand along with him; his right hand still bore the scars where shards of holly had ripped his tendons and the explosion had broken bone. They’d been able to fix that, mostly, and the rest of his blast-ridden body, but no-one had been able to fix his magic. Throughout his recovery and the celebrations and the award ceremonies (he had been given an Order of Merlin, First Class, among other things), they’d said it was shock, just a temporary thing, but that had been three months ago, three long months when he should have been finishing his sixth year at school, but had instead been battling his nightmares and inner demons.

They’d tried everything the experts could think of, and at first he’d been enthusiastic, believing their rose-tinted ideas, but it had been the look in old Ollivander’s face when Dumbledore himself had taken his student to the shop for another wand that had sealed the youth’s decision to flee such sympathy. Four hours and nothing, not even a spark from any of the wands that an increasingly desperate shopkeeper had produced; all had rejected him, and so Harry had rejected the world, he had taken his reward, the gold which could offer no comfort and the awards that meant little to a squib, and had bought this cottage in the middle of the Highlands, where no-one would bother him, and he had begun his life as a recluse.

And the wizarding world had left him to it.

He was seventeen now, just, legally allowed to perform magic that was out of his reach. The cards and presents, which had owled their way to him, were still piled up inside unopened where he’d left them four days ago: he couldn’t bear to mark the hollow occasion that meant nothing since his loss. Instead, Harry had focused on his garden, and pre-prepared magical seeds that no squib should be without. He’d made quite a nice arboretum in the back garden, but he’d become bored with it as soon as it was finished. It was watching the magic he enjoyed, seeing the power he craved working in front of him, and so he’d begun on the front garden -- a small rose bed.

Harry knelt back and watched the bush begin to take purchase. This was a white rose, at least that is what had swayed in the breeze on the packet that had arrived from his supplier yesterday. He’d come out here early, almost as soon as the sun was up, to prepare the soil; maybe this one would give him enough pleasure to want to eat some breakfast today, but as he waited, he doubted it.

“Gardening, the resort of the bored,” a voice from the past pulled Harry to his feet with alarmed speed.

He spun round to the direction of the sound, reaching like the warrior he was for the weapon that wasn’t there, and unable to stop his movements, Harry met the gaze of Draco Malfoy feeling foolish as he held out an empty hand. Malfoy, the school embodiment of Voldemort’s threat to the world, was leaning nonchalantly on Harry’s gate post, and raised an eyebrow at the useless defence. He was dressed casually, although expensively, in jeans and a t-shirt, and his wand was nestling in the back pocket of his trousers, untouched. Confused, and wary, Harry stood straight, and more to settle his nerves than anything else, he asked, “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“To see where our Angel of Destruction has hidden himself,” his one-time rival returned flippantly, gazing up at the stone frontage with derision.

“Well you’ve seen, so hex me if you want and then leave,” Harry told him bluntly, and turned back to where he’d left his trowel.

He didn’t really care if Malfoy had come to finish him off, it would spare him the barren years ahead. Malfoy had never shown his hand openly, never declared his allegiance to either his father or Voldemort, but their secret battles last year at school had more than told Harry whom this youth had called Master.

“Is that any way to treat a visitor?” his enemy chided lightly, and drew a dark look from Harry as he opened the gate and stepped onto private territory.

“Go away,” the hermit tried again, gathering up his gardening basket and planning to flee.

However, Malfoy, it seemed was not brooking any dismissal, and he strode past the hostility towards the front door.

“Nice place you have here,” the self-invited guest began, and almost sounded like he meant it, until, on the doorstep, he flashed his ice eyes at Harry and added, “for a squib.”

Harry growled, but just had to follow his disappearing visitor into the house.

“Get lost, Malfoy,” he ordered, blinking heavily at the shadowy world after the bright morning sunshine; he stopped as his adjusting eyesight noted the white-blond figure only a few feet in front of him, but he failed to make out what he was doing. The first Harry knew of anything magical was when he felt the light brush of dust on his face, and he had breathed it in before he smelt the distinctive odour of dreamerswort, and then it was too late. He growled again when his vision adjusted to recognise a triumphant watcher just in time to fail once more as the knock-out powder did its job.

~

If the choking antidote had not woken him, Harry was sure that Malfoy’s exotic aftershave would have done the same job; he breathed both in, coughing as his senses were overwhelmed by the input, bringing water to his eyes. A body was close up on his, and Harry struggled as he realised he was now in a reclining position. Yet, he couldn’t fight the weight that was leaning up over him, and adjusting one of the reasons he was powerless, something tight on his wrist that held him to the bedpost, which he realised with another shock of alarm. Harry complained and pulled at the bonds which held his arms out and his body propped up on his own pillows.

“Don’t strain yourself, Potter, I want you in one piece,” Malfoy scolded as if he were giving out demerits.

“Get off me!” the captive took no heed, and thrashed his lower body to try and regain some control.

Malfoy did move off then, but as Harry blinked away the tears and made out the dominant stare that took up position at the end of the bed, he knew that the shift had had nothing to do with his will. Feeling exposed, he covered his emotions with a glare.

“Now I have you where I want you, we can start again,” Malfoy smiled condescendingly, drawing his wand out of its pocket.

Harry held his breath and watched the tip dance in the air; he didn’t hear what his enemy cast, but he saw the flash of purple light which then came at him. He tensed and closed his eyes and waited for whatever torture Malfoy had devised. The crackle of magic set his teeth on edge, and made the hairs on his arms stand straight, but Harry choked on his own breath as the power danced over the length of his body and then dispersed. Laughter greeted his gasps, and he opened his eyes and glowered at his amused captor.

“Well, well, the reports are true, the squib who isn’t just a squib,” the ice-cold youth looked contemplative and impressed, a worrying mixture for his victim.

“Did you come here to play with me, or was there something else?” Harry quipped at the aggressor, trying to stem the wave of panic that his position was giving him; so he couldn’t be touched by magic thus far, so what? He couldn’t use it either.

“I came here to satisfy myself of the rumours that you were finished, Potter,” Malfoy derided, and from the tone, Harry knew he wouldn’t be leaving this encounter alive.

“So you’ve seen: I’ve got no wand; I can’t cast magic; I’m a bloody squib, so kill me already!” the hostage yelled.

Yet, if he had hoped to get a rise out of his holder, he was disappointed; Malfoy just smiled.

“Temper, temper,” his captor chided, and put a knee back onto the bed between Harry's ankles. “That’s not what I had in mind at all.”

The wand was discarded, and two free hands ran up the inside of Harry’s legs, pushing them apart. At first, the youth was too shocked to react, caught in confusion that the totally unexpected form of attack created. He’d suffered pain and humiliation at the hands of Voldemort before he had been able to cast the final blow, but the generations between them had made their enmity a clean thing of hatred; the definite strokes which spread him wide were not pure like that burning odium, they were sexual, and Harry couldn’t believe the fire he saw in his oppressor’s eyes. Horror of this new dimension froze him into inactivity until thumbs were dragged languidly up his inner thighs; with a shout of denial, Harry lifted his torso off the bed and shoved and kicked at his attacker.

Malfoy was ready for him, and strong, Quidditch-trained muscle leant quickly up over the writhing, half-starved, weakened body and put down the fight with his own-weight. Harry struggled, but his self-neglect made his head spin and he gasped fitfully as his dominator pressed against him and forced him back into the pillows.

“Not been taking care of yourself, Harry?” his taunter whispered, intimately close, and he shuddered as he felt the prominence of Malfoy’s erection close to his body. “Makes my life easier, but neither of us ever went in for easy did we? That would have been boring.”

Malfoy held his position until any resistance Harry could muster had disappeared in shivers of weakness. The trapped youth couldn’t fight the weight, which was cutting off his air supply, or the obvious arousal which made him feel sick, and he relaxed unwillingly. Only then was the pressure lifted. He dragged in a deeper breath as the weight of body on his chest drew back, and he could have bucked again then, as his subjugator shifted position, but he settled for relief as the obvious feel of Malfoy’s excitement was lifted away as well.

Harry’s respite lasted as long as it took for his dominator to balance his new stance, kneeling between his still spread legs. He whined as palms that had so recently been on his thighs were now run up under his grubby t-shirt and over his prominent ribs.

“You need to eat, Harry,” Malfoy told him, as long fingers played over his pecs; Harry squirmed as circling thumbs grew closer and closer to his nipples, but he could only grunt his discomfort as they reached the sensitive flesh. “Don’t you like that, Harry?” his subjugator teased. “What are you going to do about it?”

The taunt found its prisoner’s fight once more, and he twisted again, trying to get away from the insistent touch; yet that hot body was pressed close again, and he froze instantly, disgusted and helpless. The intimacy was not removed this time, and Harry trembled in dread as lips touched his neck. They were warm and damp, and unlike anything he had ever felt before. He groaned as their sticky circlet was supplemented by the flick of tongue on his skin, and shudders of revulsion ran through his body. Malfoy laughed, breath tickling the flesh he had been teasing, and Harry pushed up against the assault, needing to make it stop.

“I never knew you could be so entertaining, Harry,” the tormentor drooled.

“Get off,” he half begged half challenged.

“Make me.”

Harry was powerless as his assailant’s tight, excited breath played against his ear, and his body was held rigid while those cruelly exploring fingers were pushed down towards his waistband. Horror and despair mixed in his chest as a hand undid his fly, first the button; “You’re mine, Harry.” The youth gasped in his emotions, his last resort to hide the degradation of this moment from his dominator. Then the zip, each unlocking piece of metal, one by one, gradually giving up their protection of his dignity. “I can take you as slow, or as fast as I like.” Harry ground his teeth, and buried his tailbone in the bed as Malfoy slid his palm down over his groin, only thin cotton between the assault and its prize. “Squirm all you like, Plaything. Where’s all that power you had now? The great Boy Who Lived, trapped by simple rope and under my control. How does that make you feel, Harry?” Fingers tormented him, and no matter how he moved, Harry could not get away from their probing touch. Down between his legs, finding easy access in his over-sized jeans. “Soon, there won’t be any cloth between us, soon I’ll make you feel the power of my cock.”

Humiliation and anger and resentment met inside the desperate prisoner, and he let it out in a yell of outrage. The world went away in the furious defence as Harry tipped his head back and strained his body off the bed. He felt his attacker lift with him, and then something else came from deep inside him. His muscles locked, and his senses disappeared into a tumult of something he did not understand. The rush made his blood roar in his ears, and his heart thundered in his chest, and, terrified, Harry could do nothing but let it run its course.

Bewildered, gasping, sweaty, aching, but without the burden of his attacker on his body, Harry came back to himself. His cry had become a moan, and he blinked away the remnants of whatever had just happened, trying not to move as his muscles complained with even simple breathing. His brain took longer to settle from the heady effects of his emotion, and it was light, victorious laughter which forced the rest of the mists from his mind. Anxious once more as he heard the tones of his captor, Harry risked his painful muscles as he shifted as much as he could to try and find out from where the sound was coming.

Still tied, he could not see much, and he collapsed back onto the mattress as a blond crown appeared between his feet at the end of the bed. Malfoy was picking himself up from where he had landed, some distance from his prisoner, and he did not seem phased by the incident. Harry just lay still, dragging in breaths as he realised that whatever had happened, he was still at the mercy of this tormentor, and the sickness in his stomach threatened to make it all the way out of his body.

“I knew it,” Malfoy gloated, picking up his wand, but thankfully, remaining standing over his captive.

Harry didn’t have the energy to ask him what he meant; he was exhausted. He closed his eyes and hoped that he’d pass out.

“Don’t fade on me now, Potter, not now you’ve confirmed my theories,” Malfoy complained, and the taunt was enough to make the youth open his lids again. Malfoy was smiling at him, and it wasn’t all selfish superiority, it was much more; Harry could see excitement in those grey eyes, and other things he didn’t want to interpret. His dominator explained, “There will always be Dark and Light, Potter, even with this war finished. I am the Dark, and I want my opponent back. I came here to wake you up. You’re not a squib.”

Harry stared openly at the figure before him, confused and silent in the presence of a victory he didn’t understand.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to do much damage the first time,” Malfoy continued, his eyes flashing at the incomprehension below him; he relished the words as he explained, “You can’t use a wand because you’re a Freehand now.”

Sometimes Harry really regretted his Muggle upbringing, because the name meant nothing to him, even after six years at Hogwarts. Malfoy gave him a roll of his eyes and condescended, “You don’t need a wand anymore. Note that you shoved me off without one?”

The prisoner opened his mouth to say something, anything to make sense of that piece of information, but nothing made it any clearer. Malfoy laughed again and told him, “Well, I don’t have time, or the compunction to explain this to you any more. Suffice to say you have the power to release yourself, Potter, and then I suggest you go and see Dumbledore. For now,” Harry tensed as Malfoy knelt back on the bed and reached openly for his groin, “it’s goodbye, but,” he took hold of the zip and drew it back up, “I expect to see you back at school in September. You have just over a month to work this out, Potter, then things get interesting again.”

The captive stayed taut and on guard, even as his tormentor stood up and headed to the door. Only as he heard footsteps on the stairs did he risk letting out the breath he’d been holding, and then Harry collapsed against the pillows and let his reeling thoughts take over.


	2. Friends and Enemies, Old and New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry must deal with the fallout from Draco's visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

It took Harry until dark to get himself out of his bonds, and even then he wasn’t sure how he had done it; he’d fallen asleep, exhausted by the rigors of the attack, and his painful attempts to release himself. The nightmare of Malfoy’s face had driven him from sleep though, and he had ripped his wrists out of the ropes with the same kind of rushing strangeness as that which had propelled his tormentor. He had spent the next few days in a fever, scared and weak and alone as his freehand condition, whatever it was, had refused to let him go. Yet, he had woken on the fourth day, tired, but feeling stronger than he had in a long time. That was when, grudgingly accepting its logic, Harry had followed his enemy’s advice, and had climbed on his broom and flown the journey to Hogwarts.

Harry had spent plenty of holidays in the quiet halls of school, but he had never been here during Summer, and he realised as he landed in the cloisters that he didn’t even know if Dumbledore was in residence. Still, he was here now, so he walked into the cool stone passageways and headed to his headmaster’s study. Hogwarts had always made him feel safe, even with Malfoy in its corridors, but magic had begun to betray him, and Harry was not as certain of his welcome as he had been before; he found himself looking at the familiar old walls with new, harshly opened eyes, and wondering if his new strangeness would be worse than being a squib. He had had enough of standing out, The Boy Who Lived, the Hero of the Wizarding World, and now a Freehand; he didn’t know what it meant, and he hoped that his mentor could tell him.

Fate, at least, was enough on his side that Harry found his quarry before getting to the room whose password he did not currently know. Dumbledore and Harry came to a halt as each turned into their mutual corridor at the same time. Harry gazed at his friend, feeling all the uncertainty that had been gathering in his soul since he had run from the kind face which looked back at him. The old wizard paused a moment, taking in the dishevelled, unshaven youth who hadn’t even had a wash let alone changed his clothes in four days, and then greeted, “Hello, Harry.”

“I need to talk to you,” the pupil told his headmaster, too wound up for niceties.

“Of course, My Boy. Tea, in my office, I think would be best.”

Harry didn’t care about tea, but privacy and a sit down sounded good, so he just followed Dumbledore as they finished the journey to the study in silence.

“Jellytots,” the tall man called and revealed the staircase to his rooms; he indicated for Harry to go first and shepherded him up the spiral steps.

The youth let himself be led to a chair and sank in to it as his companion went about making tea. Harry just watched, not sure what he was going to say when attention was finally back on him; he certainly wasn’t going to mention Malfoy’s visit, he wanted to forget about that as soon as his subconscious would let him. So, he took a cup when it was offered, and stared at Dumbledore as he settled into his own seat and battled with opening gambits. His headmaster seemed to register his disquiet, and with a caring smile, asked, “How may I assist you, Harry?”

No words came: instead, the troubled youth found himself focusing on an inkstand on his mentor’s desk, and it began to shake as he felt the familiar rushing in his body. Harry knew he’d made a mistake as soon as the marble pot began to tremble, because as he tried to let go, the magic refused to stop. He gasped and tea spilt over his fingers as the vessel bounced higher off the wooden surface, unable to tear his attention away. He had no brakes, and very quickly, the dance made a gouge in the polished oak, before, to his dismay, Harry watched as the inkstand leapt off the desk and smashed on the floor. The boy cowered into the depths of the high-backed chair and apologised, “I’m sorry, I can’t control it.”

Dumbledore just put his tea on his desk and sat back as well, regarding his unhappy pupil seriously; he didn’t look surprised.

“I had not expected you to discover your abilities for some time yet, Harry,” he eventually spoke with knowledge that made Harry instantly angry.

“You knew?!” he demanded, feeling the hotness of tears at the back of his eyes.

“I suspected after out visit to Ollivanders,” Dumbledore answered calmly. “No wizard is rejected by every wand he tries unless he has no need of one.”

“But you let me think I was a squib,” Harry objected, all the worthlessness of that idea coming through.

“I am sorry, but being hand-freed is not an easy thing, either, Harry. It was safer for you to be thought of as powerless by all, including yourself, until you came into it naturally,” the headmaster made no excuses, but his face did show sympathy.

The youth bit his tongue as the thought of one enemy, who had not been so blind, brought colour to his face.

“Well, I’m coming into it now,” he growled indignantly, still fighting tears, “so what the hell does it mean?”

“The wand is a tool designed to enable a wizard or witch to focus their words and intent to perform magic,” the professor began. “Its core and its craftsmanship are matched carefully to the user. However, there have been a very few wizards and witches throughout history who have moved beyond the need for such a tool. When you exploded your wand in order to defeat Voldemort, at which point did the explosion occur, before or after you cast the spell?”

Harry thought about that; it was all very hazy, he’d been captured by Death Eaters and tortured before being brought before their Lord, and Voldemort had thought him too far gone to be of any threat, so he had given him his wand back for one last fatal game. He hadn’t even been able to stand up, and his throat had been swollen from screaming, but he had put every last thought into destroying his foe.

“Before,” he decided, as he remembered the wand shattering and embedding itself into his hand in advance of his throwing of the curse; he took a sip of tea as those memories made him tremble.

“Your body became your tool, that is how you were able to focus enough magic to defeat Voldemort,” his headmaster told Harry. “However, the trauma was almost too great for you. That is why you did not continue to use magic. Judging from your reaction today, it is still too great. You did not come by this knowledge naturally, did you, My Boy?”

The youth went cold, and staring into his tea, shook his head.

“Will you tell me how?”

He shook his head again.

“Then I shall not press you for details. However, I must warn you that although being a Freehand will, in time, be to your advantage, until you master your abilities you are vulnerable to being bound by another witch or wizard. That would mean they could use you as a very powerful wand: you would be a slave. We must manage this new aspect to your abilities and bring it under control in secret.”

Despite the caution, Harry had never been so glad to hear an offer of help, and Dumbledore smiled at his wet, frightened gaze.

“At this moment, you are projecting raw magic: very powerful, but exhausting and blunt. We must teach your magical instincts to work in a less black and white manner. Would you object to residing here at Hogwarts for the rest of the Summer?”

The young man shook his head vigorously, drawing in a ragged breath.

“Then I suggest that we bend the knowledge of those we trust to assisting you with this problem.”

The old man’s words cut the ties of willpower that had kept the struggling young man together since his lonely world had been torn apart. Free in the support of a trusted friend, Harry let go, and his emotions welled up like a geyser. The self-loathing and humiliation joined with his fear of what his tormentor had revealed, and unable to stop himself, Harry began to sob.

~

Exhausted, emotionally and physically, Harry had fallen asleep in the care of his headmaster. The next morning, he had woken in the infirmary under Madame Pomfrey’s nursing, and had been told not to worry about anything, that Dumbledore was making all the arrangements that were necessary. Then the woman had scolded him for not eating properly and given him a meal fit for three people. He hadn’t eaten a tenth of it, but she’d seemed satisfied, and let him out of bed for a shower. By that evening, Harry, and his things had been moved into Gryffindor Tower under the watchful eye of Professor McGonagall, who on hearing of her favourite pupil being back at Hogwarts, had dropped straight out of a mystery tour of Old English Witchcraft, and had apparated back on the spot. He was grateful to all three supporters, if somewhat dazed by their generosity, and wearily submitted himself to their authority.

That night was where the ease ended: a month in which to get a foot hold on an obscure branch of physically demanding magic was not long. Days were long battles with mental exercises and mostly fruitless attempts at control. Nights still held his own demons, including the new ghost of Malfoy. Yet, Harry was not alone, and his companions helped him through his tears and frustrations. Day by day came small improvements: an ability to direct the mad jig of any object under his spell, and then the control to slow it down, or speed it up; still raw power, still fickle in when it would show itself, but something with which Harry began to become accustomed.

By the time the month was up, he was no longer afraid of his potential, if still somewhat vague on the details.

~

The night before the other pupils were due to arrive, Harry was summoned to Dumbledore’s office. He had kept out of the way most of the previous few days, because the other teachers had begun to arrive back from their holidays, including the odious Professor Snape, who had already given him a dressing down for running in the corridors that morning. So it was that Harry had no idea why he was going to the meeting, and he said, ‘Jellytots’ with a slightly unsure lilt to his voice. Still, his long talks with his mentor in the protection of this study over the last few weeks had made it a place of comfort for him, so it was only a mild concern, more a curiosity, which led him into the chamber.

Professor Dumbledore was not alone.

Harry tried not to frown as both the headmaster and a woman, tall and aristocratic in her demeanour, rose to greet him.

“Harry, thank you for joining us,” Dumbledore greeted. “This is Mademoiselle Yneme, our new Defence Against The Dark Arts professor.”

“Hello, Mademoiselle,” the youth nodded, and hung on to his hormones as he was given a smile and incline of her fine, dark head that could have caused a thousand wars.

“Bonsoir, Harry, I am very pleased to meet you,” the teacher (Harry reminded himself of that fact twice before sitting down) replied in a soft French lilt.

“We are fortunate, Harry, that Mademoiselle Yneme has experience in powers of the mind, and I have asked her to assist you with your training,” his headmaster informed Harry of the happy fact, and he smiled in what he hoped was an innocent manner.

“My abilities are not as dramatic as your own, Harry,” the beauty explained with another winning and captivating curl of her lips. “However, I have worked with telepaths, and telekinetics, and I am myself empathic through my mother’s House, and so I have the disciplines to help you.”

“Thank you,” Harry breathed, containing the wolf’s howl that Remus would have been proud of.

“As well as introducing you to the Mademoiselle,” Dumbledore continued and then stifled any wanton thoughts his pupil was having as he spoke of practical things, “we must discuss your situation as the other pupils will see it.”

Harry straightened and thought about that for a moment; this wasn’t the first time this subject had been raised, and his companion knew it made him uncomfortable. It was too dangerous to tell the world that a Freehand was studying at Hogwarts, especially while he was vulnerable to anyone who decided he’d make a useful tool. Binding a Freehand to you was difficult, but had had devastating results in the fifteenth century, the graphic account of which Dumbledore had made sure Harry had read, and given that he was defenceless until he learned the more difficult art of channelling anything more than raw magic, everyone was going to have to think they were still dealing with a squib, or at least a temporary squib.

“I would suggest that your continued study at Hogwarts should take the same course with which you began your N.E.W.T. studies, with Advanced Potions, Transfigurations and Defence Against the Dark Arts. However, you will be excused from the practicals, until such time as your new abilities may be revealed.”

Harry nodded, but his dissatisfaction was difficult to hide, and Mademoiselle Yneme picked up on it.

“You are not happy about this?”

“I just wish there was some other way. I’ve had people cheering me, feeling sorry for me, hating me all my school career, and for just one year I’d like to fit in,” Harry sighed.

“Having others think you a squib is better than being a target that moves,” the woman revealed why she was taking up the inherently practical post of Defence Against the Dark Arts.

“I know,” the young man nodded.

“At least no wand work is required for Quidditch, Harry,” Dumbledore found the silver lining; the youth smiled -- he was still Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.

~

Getting ready for the sorting banquet was quite fun; Harry played errand boy for Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore all day, enjoying the glimpse behind the scenes of what it took to get the school ready for its pupils. However, when he went with Hagrid to meet the train, butterflies started. In the first few weeks after killing Voldemort, Harry had had visitors aplenty, some he wanted and some he didn’t. The officials and hangers-on had disappeared once the celebrations had died down, but his friends and loved ones had stayed close. Yet he had begun to shut himself off, even before the strangers had stopped shaking his hand, as soon as he had begun to suspect that magic had turned its back on him. He’d pushed everyone away, eventually running away to the isolated Highlands, and he hadn’t seen anyone since. He remembered the unopened letters that were probably still stacked on his table in the cottage, along with all his cards and presents, and he began to feel guilty: how would everyone react to their new squib? Anxiously, Harry watched the train draw in to the September evening, and listened to all the door latches as they were thrown open.

Bodies in their uniform robes, house colours showing a Gryffindor here, a Ravenclaw there, poured out of the express, and Harry smiled as he heard his companion’s familiar call, “First Years this way!” Harry stepped away from Hagrid as he felt tens of big round eyes staring at him and realised his distinctive appearance was probably distracting the juniors from the cue they were meant to be making. He nodded to a few of them, his seniority making him more sure of his fame than in previous years, and then walked down the platform.

In mid-stride, he froze; the last person Harry wanted to see was standing amongst his chattering minions, ignoring them all and smiling at him. Harry tried to tell himself that Malfoy didn’t look so threatening in his school uniform, but he was kidding himself, it was the look in those grey-blue eyes under hair that had been getting longer and wilder every year, which made the Prince of Slytherin dangerous. Harry hadn’t known whether to take his opponent’s suggestion that things would get _interesting_ again as a threat or merely an observation, but as he met the intense stare, he knew that where he rival was concerned, it had merely been a statement of fact.

Harry was still locked into the staring match with his nemesis, his body hot and tingling with rage, when he was leapt on and the vision disappeared.

“Harry, Mate, how are you?!” Ron greeted, wrapping his friend in his tall, thick-set frame.

“Ron!” he let the warmth rush in as his fears of at least one awkwardness were removed, and he hugged back, and joked, “I was fine till this big red-headed giant jumped me.”

The young man huffed, and let his companion go, but he was still grinning all over his face.

“Harry, we’ve been so worried about you,” another red-head sounded very much like her mother as she swept past her brother and dragged Harry down for a hug.

“Good to see you, Ginny,” he returned, trying not to think about the explanation he was going to have to give his friends in a more private setting than a station platform.

When Ginny stepped away, there was one young woman stood beside her boyfriend, smiling warmly at him whom Harry had been wanting to speak to since finding out about his new qualities. Hermione Granger was tall and voluptuous and demanded respect in her pristine uniform, with her Head Girl insignia in place, but she would forever be the lonely little girl crying in the toilets to Harry Potter, and he swept his confidante into his arms and greeted, “Hello, Hermione.”

“Hello, Harry,” she answered with a laugh in her voice. “Did your hand take longer to heal than expected?”

He stood back and let his expression do the asking about what she meant.

“Lost the ability to write, have we?” she chided, but was smiling.

“Sorry,” Harry looked round at the three faces as he apologised. “I have a lot to tell you, but after the feast.”

He was given a triple nod of agreement.

“What is a squib doing at Hogwarts?” interrupted the moment between friends, and Harry turned to glower at the source.

Draco Malfoy was surrounded by his fellow Slytherins, Crabbe and Goyle one to each side, Pansy just in front and Blaise behind.

“He’s not a squib,” Ginny countered for her comrade, when words failed him.

“Aren’t you, Potter?” his adversary spoke directly to him, and no-one else mattered; this close, Harry could smell his aftershave, and his stomach was doing somersaults. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

“Get lost, Malfoy,” the youth countered lamely, having nothing to meet the power that was being lorded over him.

Malfoy grinned, just for him, and dismissed, “Be seeing you, Squib.”

Then he walked away, his groupies in tow; as they walked past, each one smiled nastily at him and taunted, ‘Squib’.

“You aren’t are you, Mate?” Ron asked once they were gone, worry in his gaze.

“I’ll explain later,” Harry promised, unable to say anything with so many ears around.

“Lets go and get a carriage,” Hermione decided, and led the way off the platform.

~

The journey to the castle was full of chatter about the Summer, and Harry listened gladly as he was told about Hermione’s holiday to Canada and the Weasley trip to see Charlie in Romania. Ron’s encounter with a baby dragon was especially entertaining, since he pulled out the picture of him in scorched shirt and black face. The youth was glad when no-one asked him about his holiday.

The feast was less fun; hundreds of glances came his way, some sympathetic as the rumour mill worked over time, some awe-filled, especially from the new Gryffindors, and one which bored into his soul every time he glanced in the direction of the Slytherin table. Harry glared back, but his defences were crumbling by the time the party dispersed.

Ron and Hermione and Ginny (a prefect since the previous year) dashed off to fulfil their duties, and so Harry walked back to the tower with Neville and Colin Creavy, both of whom chattered around his taller form, and gave up trying to get him to join in. Already unpacked, he sunk into one of the deep sofas and sent his friends off to sort themselves out. From his seat, he watched the world go by and eventually slipped into a doze.

A gentle hand shook him awake, and Harry opened his eyes to see Hermione standing over him. She smiled and stood back, revealing Ron stood next to her, and Ginny on the other side. It had to have been late, because the fire was the only light in the common room, and there was no-one else around.

“All finished?” he asked as the trio sat down.

“All done,” Ron nodded.

“So now it’s my turn,” the youth confirmed, and decided to start directly with, “I’m not a squib.”

The three people visibly relaxed, and Ron was the most honest as he admitted, “Thank Merlin for that. So what is going on?”

“I thought I was,” Harry told them bluntly, “and I couldn’t face it, so I tried to run away. But, I got a wake up call in July, and I found out why I can’t use a wand anymore: I’m a Freehand.”

Varying amounts of astonishment greeted him, and he pressed on rapidly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t write and tell you, but it would be very dangerous for me if anyone knew.”

“Until you can defend yourself properly,” Hermione caught on fast as usual, and Harry nodded.

“I’ve been training like crazy since I found out, but I can only just manage a bit of raw magic, nothing that could stand an attack if anyone wanted to bind me,” the young man confessed gladly to his friends, “so it has to be a secret. To everyone else, I’m a potential squib who is being indulged by a grateful world.”

Ron made a face, and offered, “Bad luck, Mate.”

Harry just shrugged, and continued, “McGonagall, Dumbledore, Pomfrey and Mademoiselle Yneme all know, and now you, but no-one else.” He didn’t want to think about Malfoy, or the threat he posed.

“So how are you going to study?” Hermione sounded aghast at the thought of learning suffering.

“I’m going to be doing the theory, but not the practice,” the youth smiled at her and soothed. “Mademoiselle Yneme is going to help me with the Freehand stuff once a week, and I’ll be practising in the Room of Requirement when I can. With any luck, I’ll be ready for the exams; there’s special dispensation for Freehands, there was one here in 18-something.”

“1865 - 1872, Lucy Maitridge,” Hermione revealed her encyclopaedic knowledge of ‘Hogwarts: A History’ once more, and drew raised eyebrows from her boyfriend and his sister; Harry just grinned, he’d known he’d be able to rely on his friend for information, and he had no doubt that within the week, he’d have a willing source for all things Freehand without all the reading Dumbledore had suggested.


	3. Things Get Interesting Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Term starts in earnest and so does Harry's training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

If the feast had been bad, then the first day was worse, and mainly due to one man, Professor Severus Snape. He disapproved of indulging the Boy Who Lived at the best of times, but now that he had been exempted from potions’ practicals, being set to sit and watch Ron (in complete silence or he would be docked house points for every word he uttered), Snape had decided that extra theory was the way to go. Harry had two essays on the qualities of four different potions to write before the next week, and he wasn’t even allowed to make notes while he watched Ron.

Hermione had offered to help, but Harry had politely refused, saying that she had enough of her own work to do, especially with her extra duties. McGonagall was considerably more understanding, and once again paired the hero, now firmly labelled _squib_ in his classmates’ eyes, with Ron, but did not present him with any extra work; she also offered hope that she would have a word with Professor Snape, although Harry doubted it would have much effect.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was by far the worst lesson, however, mainly because Harry loved it so much, and had to fight his instincts to pick up a wand and embarrass himself. Mademoiselle Yneme was a partial distraction, and the youth spent a lot of his time escaping to the part of his brain that focused on his hormones as he watched her stride confidently around the classroom discussing the merits of knowing your wand, much to the discomfort of most of the boys in the room.

Yet there was one constant through all of his classes which made Harry more uncomfortable than he had ever thought possible: Draco Malfoy. If there was a chance for a jibe, he took it, taunting the squib he knew very well was no such thing, and enjoying every minute of it. By the end of the day, Harry was beginning to hate _interesting_ , but he discovered after supper that he had not yet discovered half the depths of Malfoy’s promise.

~

Harry had lost both Ron and Hermione to duties, so, having agreed with Yneme not to start training until things had hopefully settled down the following week, he had gone to the library to get on with his first essay. Later than he had thought, he had closed his books and headed to bed. To avoid roving prefects who could, although most would not dare, dock him house points for being out of the tower after curfew, he took a back route to the common room. His first dark corridor was his mistake.

Harry had pretty good instincts, but it had been a long day, and he was tired, and not watching. The first he knew of danger was a hand grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm up behind his back. The youth slammed into the wall, and stilled in dread as he felt a body up close against him, and smelt that heady aftershave.

“Hello, Potter,” Malfoy taunted. “Miss me?”

The victim flexed against his assailant, but was just pushed harder into the wall, and Harry was given his second taste of just how much domination of him aroused Malfoy. Trapped once more, he gave in to the recourse that had not been available to him in the cottage, he yelled for help. Suddenly, and with a brutality which made him choke, Harry’s sound was cut off by cloth being shoved into his mouth. He coughed and reached for the blockage with his free hand, but Malfoy was quicker, and grabbed his other wrist and brought it up to join the first. Beginning to panic, Harry felt leather against his arms, but was too late to fight the bindings as they were drawn tight. He struggled, pushing away from the wall with all his strength, but the power behind him had the mobility advantage. Harry continued to yell, his cries muffled to distant wails, but his captor just leant close to his ear, one hand now stroking his hair, and condescended, “Shh, Harry, you’ll only make it worse for yourself.”

The prisoner relaxed against the wall, desperately telling himself to bide his time for a better moment to escape. Malfoy flattened against him, rubbing sickeningly close and revelling in his triumph, but Harry held on to his anger, heeding the superior position his enemy held.

“Good boy,” the captor praised, and instructed, “Now, I’m going to turn you round. I have a knife that will slide easily between your ribs if you try anything.”

Harry let himself be spun on the spot, and capitulated as Malfoy pushed him off balance back into the wall. He glared at his nemesis, trying to muster all the defiance he could, but his holder looked right through it and smiled.

“How’s the training coming?” Malfoy asked, excitement in his eyes. “It’s been over a month, are you ready for me yet?”

Harry closed his eyes and struggled to find the erratic skills he possessed; yet his panic held them out of reach and instead, he just shuddered as a hand ran over his groin. He fought with his helplessness, searching for the same power which had sent Malfoy away from their first encounter, but this time he was alone.

“Not very good, are we?” his torturer jibed, his touch getting firmer. “Well, I have a proposition for you, Potter. I’m going to help you focus, because I’m going to keep doing this, you’ll never know where or when, until you can stop me. Understand?”

Harry whined as fingers grabbed his balls and squeezed. Whether it was the pain, or the humiliation, the youth didn’t know, but as he started to see stars, his need was answered. It had been a hard day, and the raw energy that Harry could muster was very slight, but the pressure on his genitals ceased, and Malfoy stepped away from him.

“Oo, what was that tingly feeling all over? Was that you, Harry?” his tormentor laughed at him, hands on hips as he gloated. “Not as good as last time, but then I shouldn’t expect miracles. I shall expect better next time. Now, turn around.”

The youth stared at his captor, unsure if obeying would be a good thing.

“I’m going to release you,” Malfoy told him matter-of-factly, as if he was supposed to believe every word he said.

Uncertain, but seeing no way other way out, Harry slowly turned back to face the wall. He regretted his decision, and complained again with another flex and a cry as Malfoy pushed back up against him.

“Now, now,” his enemy soothed, enjoying every pant he drew out of his unhappy victim, “I can’t take any chances that you’ll turn on me. Relax.”

Not really believing his captor, but having no choice, Harry let his lower body be pinned to the wall. Only once he was subjugated and still did Malfoy reach to undo the wrist tie. Then it was quick, and with a final whisper in his ear, “Keep the handkerchief,” the gut-wrenching attack was over. As all pressure was gone, Harry spun round to at least land a blow on his humiliator, but Malfoy was gone. Shaking and gasping for breath, Harry pulled the cloth out of his mouth and retched. The sickness reflex did not last long, and was replaced with fury, but the youth was too wobbly to consider a pursuit. He looked down at the pure cotton cloth in his hand, and in the gloom, just made out the embroidered D on its corner; his rage solidified on the inanimate object, and almost immediately, it burst into flames. Harry dropped the burning symbol of his hatred, and staggered away, cursing the fact that he had no wand.

~

Harry hadn’t told anyone about the attack, in fact he hadn’t said much of anything to anyone at all for three days. He knew his friends were beginning to worry, but he couldn’t find the words to confide his shame to them. The horrors of school life had begun to sink in, the looks, the sympathy, and the ugliness of Draco Malfoy; there was only one place he felt free, and Harry took to the Quidditch pitch as soon as lessons had finished. Out in the open, he was free from everything, and he could out fly anyone, even Slytherin’s seeker. He knew he was flying too high: Madame Hooch would skin him alive if she caught him, but the chill air through his unruly locks, and the whip of his robes out behind him took everything else away. His problems were as small as the lights from Hogsmeade. Only when his fingers were too numb to hold the broomstick did he come down, and it was already dark. As the world settled back around him, Harry plodded off the pitch.

The young man regretted his carelessness as he realised he had allowed himself to forget the time; dusk made seeing difficult, and he was wary of all the dark corners of Hogwarts now. His fears were met when he heard a rustle of cloth, and desperately, Harry held up his broom as the only weapon he had. Heart in his mouth, he scanned the immediate area.

“Are you alright, Mr Potter?” the concerned tones of Professor McGonagall made him tremble with relief.

He dropped the broom to his side, and almost laughed as he greeted, “Hello, Professor.”

“That does not answer my question, Young Man,” the woman was nothing if not direct.

“This whole Freehand thing is making me nervous,” he told most of the truth, and then lied, “The accounts the Headmaster has me reading are a bit graphic.”

“You wish someone to walk with back to the tower?” his head of house smiled as she thought she understood.

“Yes please,” Harry let her see his relief, all of it.

“Things will sort themselves out,” McGonagall assured him with a pat to his shoulder as he fell in beside her. “I have spoken to Professor Snape, and there will be no more extra essays as long as you finish the two he has already set you.”

“Thank you,” the youth smiled genuinely, and decided that maybe things weren’t as bad as he had thought.

~

His head was spinning, and with a groan, Harry grabbed the desk in front of him.

“Are you still with me, Harry?” Mademoiselle Yneme bent to her subject, her soft hand reaching out to touch his face.

Harry blinked as he was given a good view down the front of his teacher’s dress, but ripped his reeling vision away from those delights as his loins threatened to make him obvious for not the first time that evening. Freehand practice was not at all what it had been with Professors Dumbledore, or McGonagall, and he struggled to concentrate on those lovely, deep brown eyes so close to him.

“You must trust me,” the sad faced urged. “The sickness will pass if you allow me into your mind.”

“I can’t,” Harry apologised. “It’s my Occlumency training from last year, it’s clashing with what you’re trying to do. Is there another technique we can try?”

Yneme pursed her lips into a pout which made her pupil swallow hard and try to think of lists of potion ingredients.

“Alright, maybe we start with something different,” the empath nodded and to Harry’s libido’s relief, stood away.

The young man looked around the empty classroom, and wondered if training was supposed to be this hard, in more ways than one.

“Let us be honest, Harry,” the woman fixed him into his seat, and he sunk further under the desk as he tried to hide what she was doing to him. “I am empathic, and I know that I provide you certain distractions, no?”

The youth coloured, and was given a beautiful smile.

“Do not be ashamed, Harry. You are a man, and I am a woman, there is nothing wrong with that,” the mademoiselle cajoled.

“But you’re my teacher,” Harry objected, his arousal still growing, and his face getting hotter.

“I do not wish to take advantage,” she laughed, and things dampened at what the youth considered ridicule. “No, no,” Yneme countered, clapping her hands together and sitting on the desk, “do not be upset, my words are too direct. What I mean, is I do not wish you like that, but maybe we use these feelings to focus your power, no?”

Harry wasn’t too sure about that, he was used to his hormones embarrassing him with girls, not helping him.

“Come now, we cannot be embarrassed by this,” his companion soothed, touching his face in that dreamy way again. “You are a tool now, your body holds your power, you must learn to know it and use it.”

“What do you suggest?” he decided that his teacher was right.

“Tell me what you feel, Harry, but not with your mouth, with your mind,” the young woman slid off the table and walked around behind her pupil; Harry took a deep breath as hands rested on his shoulders and began to massage them. “Look ahead, Harry, and show me.”

Harry really didn’t trust himself right then; he could smell Mademoiselle Yneme, he could feel her, and he could hear her breathing excitedly; maybe the French were freer with their emotions, maybe it was just empaths, but he was a seventeen year old, hormonal teenager, and letting go felt really uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat, and drew in ragged air, but palms pushed down on his shoulders and told him, “Concentrate.”

The youth grabbed the edge of the desk and focused on a piece of air just in front of the desk. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he felt the rushing begin in his belly and with a gasp of surprise, he let it out. The atmosphere shimmered in front of him, and something dropped out of nothing. Anxious as to what his something might be, Harry stood up and leant over the desk to see what he had conjured. With a trill of laughter, Mademoiselle got there first and picked up the crumpled red card; the Freehand knew he’d gone the same colour as the paper, as he realised he’d summoned something which had sat in the bottom of his school trunk since last Valentine’s day, a card from some unknown admirer.

“That is so sweet, Harry,” the woman smiled genuinely at him, and handed him back the card, “and very well done.”

“I summoned it,” Harry caught up with himself as his embarrassment allowed in some thought of the achievement, “I actually did something.”

“Now we must analyse how you did this thing,” Yneme slipped back into proper teacher mode. “Can you tell me what the feelings in your body were?”

The youth swallowed again and decided that success had its downside.

~

Harry was still feeling flushed and horny as he walked back to the common room after saying goodnight to Mademoiselle Yneme: he hoped he wouldn’t meet any girls on the way. Avoiding the main hallways for that reason, the youth made his second Malfoy mistake. Yet neither was his attacker perfect in his modus operandi, and the hand which went for his wrist this time, did not gain purchase. With a shout, Harry twisted out of the hold and hit into the darkness. His fist made contact with a body, and Malfoy grunted with the impact. Yet hands kept coming at him, and in uncoordinated panic, Harry flailed his arms around trying to keep from being held firmly. He felt a tug on his uniform robes, and Harry pulled away from it. For a moment, the victim was held by his own clothing, almost strangling himself as he struggled to get away, but then the robes gave, and stumbling forward, Harry ran. Gasping and running as if his pursuer was behind him, whether it were true of not, he dashed all the way to Gryffindor Tower, gabbled the password, and then ran all the way to his room.

Someone had seen him go, because, as he hid himself inside his curtained bed, that someone came up and paused at the privacy boundary.

“Mate, are you alright?” Ron asked anxiously.

“Freehand, shock, go away please,” Harry stuttered, and then buried his face in his pillow before he screamed the mixture of fear and anger that was inside.

~

Next day, as he left potions, Harry was brushed by Slytherin robes, and a voice whispered petulantly, “You’re not supposed to use your fists.”

~

It was the Hallowe’en feast, and enjoying himself, Harry threw a piece of cake playfully at his best friend. Ron complained loudly, but it had been a bad joke, so he took his punishment. Harry relaxed in the glow of good food and good friends and decided that life was beginning to look up. His freehand training was going slowly but surely, and Mademoiselle Yneme assured him that he was progressing well. He was still only managing small things, but that was mainly due to the embarrassing way she dragged his magic out of him. Still, he had quite a few wet dreams thanks to his lovely teacher, and he wasn’t complaining. His more secret problem seemed to have gone away as well; he’d started going everywhere in a crowd, which meant that he was actually talking to his friends again, which killed two doxies with one spell, and he was avoiding unpopulated areas when he was alone, which had not proved too difficult once he had gotten used to it.

“Potter, kindly refrain from showing the juniors that you are more juvenile than them,” Snape sneered at his regular target as he made one of his supervisory rounds.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry agreed, there was no point in ruining a good feast by antagonising his tormentor.

However, even capitulation from the Boy Who Lived could annoy Severus Snape, and his eyes lit up as he decided, “One of your wretched first years went to the toilet half an hour ago, he hasn’t been seen since, go and find him.”

The youth froze as his evening came tumbling down; Hermione saw the look on his face, and his friend offered immediately, “I’ll go, Professor.”

“Miss Granger, when I want a girl to go searching the boy’s toilets, I will ask. Potter, go,” he ordered, and Harry knew he was doomed.

Slowly, Harry stood up and walked towards the door. He didn’t dare check the Slytherin table to see if his nemesis was there in case it was taken as a goad. Instead, he walked out into the atrium and then headed for the logically nearest location for the first year he concluded might be imaginary. His heart in his throat, he left populated space. The inevitable happened when he went into his second deserted lavatory.

Harry had thought he was ready for a fight, he had picked up a cane from a rather eccentric statue of some former castle resident, and was holding it out in front of him. Yet the attack came from behind, pushing him into the room, and before he could turn on his assailant, he coughed powder into his lungs. The concentrate was not as powerful as dreamerswort, but it disoriented Harry enough that he dropped his weapon and had no co-ordination to fight as he was bundled into one of the cubicles. He coughed, and sneezed, also blinded by the magical dust, and his attacker pushed him up against the toilet wall, and shoved his hands up either side of his head. By this time, the world was beginning to come back, and Harry resisted the hold which tightened over his wrists. Yet it wasn’t Malfoy’s hands which held him, and as this encounter took another agonising twist, the prisoner realised that he was held in place by some kind of device. His oppressor stood back and gloated for a moment, and he informed his victim, “I thought after last time that I had better come equipped. Self-fixing manacles: bind to any surface at the will of the owner, no kinky relationship should be without them. They took rather a long time to arrive, since I had to be careful about their delivery, but they’re very effective, don’t you think?”

Where his enemy was concerned, Harry had very little coherent to say these days, and he growled his complaint and opened his mouth to yell. Yet his tormentor silenced him with his own lips. The press was heavy and demanding, and hands took his head to stop him moving. His neck complained as he strained away from the touch, but the kiss was not broken until Malfoy wanted it broken. Harry shook with revulsion, but he did so quietly as he had no wish to repeat the procedure.

“Bastard,” he hissed, pulling at the fixtures which his prison had become.

“I’m only trying to encourage your sense of application to your new disposition, Harry,” the dominator spoke like he was explaining a problem to a child, but as he did so, he began to casually pull his captive’s shirt out of his trousers.

Harry shrank away from the violation, but hands took his waist, stroking the skin already revealed and Malfoy encouraged, “There is only one way you can break those manacles, now focus.”

The youth closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the tightness around his wrists, but that was very difficult when fingers were sending shivers up your spine.

“No,” he begged, as the stroking dropped inside his waistband, but all the aggressor replied was, “Focus.”

Harry gasped and struggled as nails scratched his flat stomach and played in the hair at the top of his loins. Yet still his skills eluded him. His fly button succumbed to a dexterous touch, and the soft, but strong manacles dug into his flesh as he wrenched at them, but the Freehand could not make his talents obey his desperate will.

“You must want this if you can’t make it stop,” Malfoy teased, his breath brushing his victim’s ear as he unzipped the fly.

“No,” Harry objected, dreading the threatening assault.

Yet it wasn’t his own power that saved him; one moment his dictator was ready to take what he wanted, and the next, Harry found a hand over his mouth and a taut body close to his, holding him still. Then he knew why as he heard the door open. He might have called out to the entrant, anything to stop this, but then he heard a small frightened voice ask, “Is anybody here?”

Self-loathing and revulsion shook Harry’s body as he realised that his discoverer would be a first year, and he didn’t need the quiet signal from his captor to obey the rule of silence: there was no way he was going to traumatise a child with this debauchery.

“Please, I’m lost,” the boy begged, sounding tired and unhappy. “I know someone’s here.”

Malfoy moved then, he reached up and released his victim’s wrists, slipping the manacles into his pocket; Harry just stood there and watched as he was given the quiet signal again. He finally nodded his consent at the heavy gaze, and then his assailant was gone. Harry stayed very still as he heard the lost boy gasp at seeing the terrifying Draco Malfoy, but he was then greeted with, “Hello, you must be the missing Gryffindor, half the seventh year is looking for you.”

“Sorry,” the boy answered, sounding half scared, half relieved, “I get lost easily.”

“Come on,” the prefect sounded so kind it was sickening, “let's get you back to the feast.”

As the main door closed, Harry sank down on the toilet seat and buried his head in to his hands; this couldn’t go on.


	4. Body Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry struggles with his new instincts, magical and otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

If Malfoy’s true intentions had been to make Harry work harder at Freehanding, then he succeeded. The beleaguered youth started visiting the Room of Requirement twice daily, before and after school, and lots of disposable items began to explode as his desperation ran out of control. Ron and Hermione were worrying again, he could see it in their faces every time he was with them, but there was no way he could tell them what was going on. This was something he had to deal with himself, he had to show Malfoy that he wasn’t a toy, and the only way to do that was to make him pay. Harry was still only focusing raw magic, even the small successes with Mademoiselle Yneme were results of sheer will, not the casting of spells. His tutor had told him to be patient, that it would come, but Harry didn’t have time, and so he strained his mind, grappling with concepts that he had to admit he didn’t really understand. Yet, still his successes were few, and made from brute force. Tired, and frustrated, Harry decided that he had to confide at least some of his problem to a friend, and so he was thinking on it carefully as he opened the door to his Freehanding tutor’s classroom for their usual rendezvous.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” he greeted, trying to sound enthusiastic.

He didn’t receive the normal smooth reply he was expecting, in fact, there was a yelp, and then Harry’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Next to her desk, her blouse hanging open with nothing beneath it, was his teacher; Harry froze in the doorway, his heart thundered, and his loins reacted as his eyes saw nipples, pert, perfectly formed breasts with proud, intoxicating nipples, and he couldn’t look away. After the initial shock, the mademoiselle reacted first, and quickly grabbed both halves of the top together. Her flushed face and big round eyes brought Harry out of his hormonal stupor, and mortification ran through him.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, and then fled.

His name came after him down the corridor, but Harry kept going.

~

Defence Against the Dark Arts was the last lesson of the day, and Harry had been dreading it since breakfast. He hadn’t slept well the night before, too many images of a naked teacher had filled his dreams, and he had woken with the mixture of chagrin and erotic wont unabated. Mademoiselle Yneme was a very lovely woman, not a single boy in her classes would debate that, nor that she favoured low-cut tops, but no-one else had seen her assets so clearly. Harry considered telling Ron, but then he thought he’d probably tell Hermione, and then he’d have a girl casting judgement on him, and he didn’t want that, not on top of everything else, so, as usual, he’d just kept silent, and forced himself into the classroom at the end of the day.

Not a thing, no body language, no looks, no words from the beauty to suggest that anything out of the ordinary had gone on the previous evening, and in one way, Harry was grateful that the incident had been ignored, and in another, it made the thought of any more one on ones very uncomfortable. The youth sat through the class, not really listening to what was said, but wondering why Yneme was wearing such a tight skirt today. He tried not to look at her chest, knowing that the way she was bursting out of her clinging shirt would only make something else threaten to burst, and that would have just been too much to bear.

By the time the tuition had finished, Harry was ready to flee the classroom as he had the previous evening, but then he heard those dulcet French tones calling, “Harry, may I speak with you a moment?”

The mortification creeping up on him again, the teenager took a deep breath and turned away from his friends.

“I will not take a minute,” she smiled at him and then at Ron and Hermione, who had stopped as well, and told them, “Harry will catch up with you later.”

Oh Merlin, alone with Mademoiselle Yneme, Harry froze to the spot as he heard his comrades close the door on their way out.

“Harry,” the woman soothed, coming out from behind her desk, “do not look so worried. I only wish to apologise. I thought I had locked the door.”

The youth nodded his consent of that fact, but still wanted to turn and leave before his rather vivid memory got the better of him. However, his tutor wasn’t finished, because she walked right up to him, and held out a palm to his face. Her smile was kind, and understanding, but right then he would have preferred anger, or indifference, because all the wrong signals were going to his groin.

“Do not look so unhappy, Young One,” she calmed in a voice which did anything but calm him. “You and I, we know each other well, no? How many times must we say that you should not be afraid of here,” she rested a hand on her abdomen, and Harry swallowed hard, “or here,” his eyes gratefully traced the curve of her hand to her head, but those dreamy eyes didn’t help matters. “They are linked, and you must trust them to make your wand.”

The teenager already had a wand that was hardening with each shallow breath he took, and he knew he had to be scarlet by now.

Mademoiselle Yneme saw his discomfort, and with a glance down between them to what Harry hoped, but doubted, was something on the floor, the woman relented, and with a smile, told him, “I will see you next week, though?”

He nodded, not daring to talk, and then she released him with a, “Good evening, Harry.”

He thought he said goodbye, but it came out more like an animal noise; his tutor took it well, and just kept smiling at him as he backed cautiously out of the room. Once in the hallway, Harry bowed his head, drew in a few deep breaths and then decided he had to cool down. He headed to the nearest toilets, and ran a cold tap, splashing himself in the face, and then considering putting some ardour quencher down his trousers; however, instead, he just leant on the sink, and took some more long, calming breaths and tried to think about mundane things. Slowly but surely the bulge in his trousers went down, and he became a lot more comfortable again, but the youth was still feeling decidedly shaky as he left the thankfully deserted loos and headed back to his dorm for a lie down before dinner.

Thoughts of the graceful, talented, beautiful Mademoiselle Yneme kept distracting the hormonal school boy as he wandered through the empty corridors: the woman had quite literally destroyed any presence of mind Harry possessed, and coupled with his lack of sleep, the victim walked right into Malfoy’s trap. He didn’t note the failed lighting in the hallway of one of his normal routes, he didn’t even see the slightly open storeroom door until it was too late. Then there was more dust in his face, and the youth was grabbed by long-fingered, strong hands. Once again, disorientation prevented him from fighting back, and he was up against the wall in the dingy little storeroom, his wrists either side of his head in magical restraints, before he had a chance to even react. Harry yelled his anger and defiance, writhing against the bonds: not again, he would not be taken.

Yet laughter greeted his fury; Malfoy stood back from his prisoner, apparently amused and unphased by the noise. His long hair fell over his face, hiding half of his expression, but Harry could see the excitement in those sharp features, even in the low lighting that his captor had set up. Each twist, each cry, each desperate wrench was reflected in the glint in his nemesis’ eyes, and made his defiance worthless. Helplessly, Harry collapsed against the wall and glared at Malfoy.

“Thought you’d come by this way,” the Slytherin triumphed. “That exotic Mademoiselle Yneme gave me just enough time to do a little preparation for us. What do you think?”

“Let me go!” the youth almost screamed, his indignance protecting him from the gaze which was devouring him.

“Temper, temper,” Malfoy tutted, and smiled as he informed his captive, “but feel free to yell all you like, get it out of your system; I put up silencing charms, and I like to watch you when you’re worked up, your eyes become this intoxicating bright green.”

The taunt was too much for Harry, and without really knowing what he was doing, his body spoke for him. He felt the power start in his belly, and he grabbed on to it, dragging it out to do his will. The world went away in a spiral of sensation, and then the youth knew he was free. Yet it was not defence which released the Freehand, it was vengeance; within the heady wave of power, one constant remained in the wild wizard’s mind, that Draco Malfoy had to pay. Before he could really see again, Harry advanced on his tormentor, grabbing for the shadowy shape that was all his vision had left. He barrelled in to the firm body which was taut with shock, and shoved it backwards; it was his turn to intimidate, and Harry had learnt his lessons well. Malfoy didn’t stand a chance as he was forced up against the opposite wall, and was held there by a shuddering, maddened opponent.

The new controller sunk back into a body that had pinned his enemy in place, trapping one arm behind his back, while the other was held by a vengeful claw. Deliberately, Harry threaded his fingers into the white mane that offered him purchase, and yanked Malfoy’s face upwards, so he could see him in the glow of the floating candle.

“You bastard!” the enraged youth charged, thumping his hostage up against the wall until the tight muscles went weak. “I ought to snap your neck.”

The other boy’s breath caught in his throat as Harry tested the tendons in his long neck, but through his discomfort, he actually smiled and charged, “Why don’t you?”

That elicited another couple of enraged smashes of spine against wall, body to body, and Harry growled, but Malfoy’s smile only got wider.

“That was very impressive,” he praised, still managing to sound superior, even in the subjugated position. “Enjoying this are you?”

Harry snarled again, his instincts wanting to do some damage, but his sensibilities maintaining a scant hold on his murderous wont. He let go of the wrist he was holding and slammed his hand against the wall, close to the exposed face, but the show made little impact on his quarry.

“What do you want to do to me, Harry?” Malfoy breathed, his eyes deep and his excitement obvious.

“Shut up,” Harry warned, listening intently to the pained catches of sound in his prey’s voice as he twisted his neck further; adrenaline pumped through his system as all the hurt and humiliation was given vent in the moment of revenge. He wanted to make Malfoy beg like he had begged for mercy, he wanted to hear him scream, he wanted to be master. Yet he said nothing.

“Powerful, isn’t it, being in control?” his victim did not sound like he was at all upset, in pain, yes, upset, no. “A real turn on. Do you want me, Harry?”

In that moment, the would-be dominator lost all mastery of the situation; he let go of his subjugate and turned rapidly away as those words sent messages all around his body, and he felt his arousal for the first time. His anger had drowned everything else, but his hostage had noted something through their close contact which had been growing since he had called on his magic: he was painfully horny, his cock being hard against the constricting cloth of his trousers. Malfoy took control the instant it was relinquished, moving in to the statue that his horrified opponent had become. Harry shuddered as a hand rubbed over his hip and round until fingers brushed his prominent loins, but he didn’t shift away as his shaft twitched in response.

“No,” he moaned, his body telling him how good the touch felt, but his head screaming in confused denial.

“I think I may have to find another incentive for your training, Harry,” his companion lorded the discovery at him, pressing his own arousal against Harry’s buttocks as he continued the light tease. “Want me to help you with this?”

The come on was one step too far; the conflicted youth couldn’t take such casual enquiry from the creature who had tormented him for what seemed like for ever. He pushed the strong, sculpted body away with another yell of denial and reached for the door. Harry staggered out into the fresh air of the corridor and then ran, from Malfoy and from the sensations coursing through his own body.

~

Harry made it through the Gryffindor common room by wrapping his uniform robes around himself, keeping his head down and walking fast, but as soon as he was on the stairs to the dorms, he ran the rest of the way and dived behind the curtains of his bed. Gasping for breath, he fought the hot feelings spiralling out from his loins, trying to make them go away as he had the hard-on caused by Mademoiselle Yneme. Yet as he lay in the dark world, he could not release the powerful, frightening urges that kept him erect: images of Malfoy, the icy, cunning, white-blond corruptor, swirled in front of his blind vision, and as helpless as if his nemesis were next to him, Harry whined his horror.

His arousal fought against its bindings, and the youth struggled with its demand. Desperately, he unfastened the discomfort and pushed all his clothing down off his pulsing groin, but a hope for release from the aching need dashed against its increasing strength. Harry raised his hands away from his lower body, horrified by the instinct to touch, and he shifted in the anguish that the clash of head and body created. When had his humiliation gained this new dimension? When had the thought of Malfoy betrayed his body? The youth knew exactly when as his mind’s eye looked down on his ensnared victim, and he knew dominance. Self-loathing mixed with the heat that assaulted all of his moral footholds, and Harry shoved a hand into his mouth to stop the sob that threatened.

Harry felt as if he would burst, but he clung to the edge of the pit into which he was falling, trying to quell the fire at the bottom. Yet his body had not finished betraying him, and the power that had freed the youth from his bonds was still free in his being. Harry bit down on his hand and reared off the bed, grabbing sheet and blanket with his other hand as a third, invisible touch ran out from his flesh, and enveloped his throbbing erection. He didn’t come immediately: his body writhed without his consent, in pure, mind-blowing pleasure as the warm, intoxicating magic stroked his cock from all directions, building his arousal still further. Malfoy was in his mind, Malfoy was controlling his will as it led him to dark places of degenerate bliss, and it was those intense grey eyes that looked back into his as, with a scream choked by salty fluid flowing from the bite into his throat, Harry exploded.

Ecstasy flooded into every pore, and very quickly, the youth went weak within its thrall. He collapsed onto the bed, shaking, with bright spots in front of his eyes. There was no more Slytherin here, just wiping, physical pleasure, and even that disappeared with cruel speed. Harry whined into his bloodied hand, and continued to bite, as shame made him cold and the pain seemed to be the only real thing. He dragged himself over onto his side, curling around his knees, wishing the world away, but it wouldn’t go. Scared and humiliated by his self-betrayal, he began to cry in quiet, degraded moans.

~

Nothing like that was ever going to happen again: Harry had made that promise to himself when he had climbed out of bed the next morning after a sleepless night. He had gone straight to the Room of Requirement and buried himself in practice; he would master the skills which had betrayed him and lock them away from his instincts. That became the wild-eyed youth’s mantra, and the rest of the world could go to hell. For three days he thought of nothing else: a shadow sat in his classes, taking no notes, listening to nothing other than his internal controls, ever watchful for a slip which could lead to another downfall; his friends missed him at meals, and in the common room, and when he did not return for bed even hours after curfew, but he fobbed them off with lies about extra practice with Mademoiselle Yneme; his teachers he just ignored, their assignments and their authority. Yet, there was one thing Harry could not avoid, and on Saturday, he was forced out of his retreat onto the Quidditch Pitch for practice. Still, he kept himself separate, soaring up high to ‘take a view on the performance’, and managed, more from habit than thought, to call out instructions.

The Captain looked down on his team, noting that the new beater, Julian Chantry, was wide of his mark. He watched the boy fly for a moment, following his line, judging how far out he was, but without warning, the swift vision blurred, and Harry felt himself go weak. His fingers gripped onto his Firebolt for support, but the world kept moving without his consent, and the shaft seemed suddenly very slippery. The youth felt sick, his empty stomach cramping and blobs moved in front of his eyes among the other flyers. Unable to find the strength to hold on to his broom, Harry slid sideways and could do nothing to stop himself. His robe caught on the handle, stopping him from toppling off completely, but without proper direction, the Firebolt began to fall out of the sky. Air rushed past him, but it could not wake Harry from the disorientation which took him over, and with a strangely calm inevitability, he knew he was going to crash.

The shouts of his team mates just about reached their failing captain, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. Pain from bodily impacts from several sides did bring him round a little, but only enough to realise that he was now tangled with other people, and that they were still falling, but maybe slower, and then there was another more jarring crack as they hit ground. Harry just about made out the sky, and then shadows leaning over him and urgent, unintelligible voices, before he passed out completely.


	5. Unusual Retaliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco moves things on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

His body was aching, of that much, Harry was sure, but nothing else came to him as he slowly opened his eyes. He was lying in one of Madame Pomfrey’s beds, again, and what had woken him was a hushed conversation being held at the end of his bed between three shapes, two of whom he more, or less made out as his headmaster and his healer, but the third was mainly hidden by them, and his blurry, aching vision would not tell him to whom the shape belonged.

“It isn’t the concussion I am worried about,” Madame Pomfrey told her companions, “it is what caused it in the first place. Harry is very agitated, I had to give him a draught to still him while I mended his injuries. From what his friends told me, he hasn’t been eating with them, nor has he, I think, been sleeping, and I gather that he was not where he said he was, with you, Genevieve.”

“No, not at all, I have only seen Harry in class, and he did not show any signs of this distress, I felt nothing,” the third person was revealed, and caused a small moan from Harry as he worried about his baser instincts.

“Harry,” Dumbledore addressed him as all three people turned to him.

“How are you feeling, Mr Potter?” his healer asked, coming down one side of the bed and taking his wrist.

“Groggy,” her patient replied flatly as his pulse was taken.

“What happened, My Boy? What is causing you such distress?” Dumbledore asked, concern heavy in his tone as he stood at the end of the bed.

Harry laughed, a hysterical little sound as the questions caused all the answers he couldn’t say to jumble in his mind. He bit his lip before he cried, he was too old to cry in public.

“Do not be afraid, Harry,” Yneme urged, her dulcet tones cut by anxiety, and hands took his; the youth froze as his darling teacher knelt dramatically next to the bed and looked into his face.

How could he tell her what had driven him to this?

“It will be alright, Young One,” she soothed, and he could just about make out her comforting smile. “Many are troubled when they begin the journey into the mind, things seem not normal, problems are much bigger. But nothing is so bad.”

Harry wanted to believe those words so much, and he relaxed as hands stroked his, hoping against hope that the Mademoiselle was right.

“Why did you not come to me?”

“I was scared,” he confessed, feeling foolish, but relieved at the same time.

“I am here to help you, Harry,” Genevieve reminded him, her tone full and strong, “and I think I may help you now.”

Harry was a little disappointed when his saviour stood up and turned to his elders, but he listened intently for the promise of release.

“When starting to train, the mind can have too much within,” the empath explained to all, “and help is needed to calm the thoughts. Not always at the beginning,” she added with a gentle trill which made her pupil feel her friendship. She pulled something out of a deep pocket in her teaching robe; Harry couldn’t make it out as it was passed to Madame Pomfrey, but was told, “I use this tea, it helps me when things are too much. I think it helps Harry.”

There was silence for a moment, and the patient couldn’t see the looks that were passing between the group, but he knew what they would be: doubt, hope, generosity.

“Please, test the leaves, see what they make. It is simple herbs, nothing more,” Mademoiselle Yneme suggested.

“I shall do that, thank you, Mademoiselle,” the healer agreed, and then turned back to her patient. “For now, Harry, you are a very lucky young man: your team mates broke your fall, and thankfully nothing was damaged permanently for anyone, but it could have easily been much worse. Try and get some more sleep, and if you need anything, I shall be in my office.”

Harry nodded, and found his eyes closing without his conscious consent as mention of sleep drew him back into slumber.

~

Harry had done a lot of apologising, and made many promises not to bottle everything up again, and he was faithfully taking his tutor’s foul-tasting tea with every meal by the time Sunday evening came round, and Madame Pomfrey let him out of the infirmary. Everyone had been very clear on how close the near miss had been, and when faced with that much concern, the youth had found his perspective realigning itself. He still wouldn’t share his deepest concern, his reaction to Malfoy, but Yneme’s sensible words did make the heady encounter seem more manageable, and he returned to Gryffindor Tower with a determination to deal with it.

The tea did seem to be having an effect, and nothing seemed quite so immediately disastrous as it had before the accident, so Harry did something that would not have been possible for his beleaguered psyche just days ago, he took his time and decided to think things through. The first thing he decided to do gave him butterflies, but he knew that the best defence against his all-powerful manipulator was information, so, on the Monday evening, the youth took out his invisibility cloak and went for a reconnoitre.

The Slytherin dungeon was no place for a Gryffindor, even under his father’s protection, but the zeal of the recently epiphanied was with Harry Potter, and so, as bold as he could be, he waited for the door to be opened, and slipped in after the entrant. The second year didn’t notice his pounding heart, or the rushing of blood in his ears that Harry thought was deafening, but she did sense something; the interloper froze as the short, round girl came to a halt a few feet into the room, and he held his breath as she turned, her hand to her cheek.

“Is Peeves in here?” the Slytherin asked loudly, her eyes screwing up in suspicion.

“Not unless you let him in, Lianthy,” Blaise returned coldly, as a gathered group of seventh years, who seemed to have taken over the entire area by the fire, looked over to their junior.

The girl looked a little bit scared as she was surveyed by the might of her house, and Harry swallowed too, feeling very exposed as the child scuttled away from him and left him standing in full view of his assembled adversaries. Of course, they turned away again, and the spy chided himself for being so foolish, but despite the invisibility, he couldn’t help feeling like he’d just walked into a trap. Yet, he’d come here for a reason, and that reason was sat among his friends, apparently ignoring them as he flicked through a very large black book. Taking the dragon by the tail, Harry walked over to the gathered company.

Gossip about himself was not the first thing Harry had expected to hear, and he knew he began to blush as Pansy continued what was clearly not a new conversation.

“Anyway, I was talking to some of the Ravenclaws today, and they said that they suspect that tea they’ve got our squib drinking is to keep him docile,” the young woman was relishing the tale; Harry bristled, but managed to hold on to his temper by reminding himself that he wasn’t there. “Rumour has it that the accident on the Quidditch Pitch wasn’t so much of an accident, that Potter went nutty and attacked Weasley for not stopping the quaffle.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Pansy Darling,” a surprising voice cut through the glee with what appeared to be casual indifference.

Malfoy drew all gazes as he looked up from his book and stretched into his seat with the leisure that was due the Prince of Slytherin. Harry gritted his teeth, he didn’t like being defended by his worst enemy, and he didn’t like the way the cat-like move made his heart skip a beat. The other seventh years were all ears as their glorious leader looked round at them, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“This common room has had nothing but Potter gossip all evening,” he jibed, much to the disappointment of the ears that wanted more, “there are better things to talk about.”

“But he’s not been such fair game since the Hufflepuffs turned on him in the Tri-Wizard,” Blaise objected.

“So much ammunition, so little time,” Pansy agreed, and a laugh ran round the group, all except Malfoy, who just smiled indulgently at her; the young woman didn’t like that, and she straightened and countered, “Well, I know what is true. He does repel magic.”

“No way!” Goyle derided, and dismissive snorts came from all quarters, except, again Harry noted that his enemy was just watching his peers, waiting.

“Really, I saw him dashing somewhere the other day with that vacant look on his face; he didn’t even see me, so when he’d gone past, I cast a trip jinx at him. No reaction, not even a falter in his step.”

“You could have missed.” Harry really didn’t know what to think about his nemesis, who seemed to be holding his corner in his absence.

“Don’t be such a demon’s advocate, Draco,” Pansy snarked, “I never miss.”

“But what could be causing it if he’s really a squib?” Blaise mused, and then grinned nastily as he proposed, “When is a squib not a squib?”

“When he’s in denial,” Malfoy returned off-handedly and went back to his book; for once Harry was with the other Slytherins as they decided that such an answer was not good enough.

“What do you mean?” Blaise challenged.

Lord of all he surveyed, Malfoy rested the book back on his legs and indulged his minions.

“Think like one of our noble Gryffindor cousins; the last spell you worked blew a living being into lots of little splatters, you were sixteen at the time and it almost destroyed you as well: would you want to have anything to do with magic again?”

Mouths were hanging open, including Harry’s, as for the second time, his rival casually went back to his text.

“So he’s not a squib?” Pansy asked the pertinent question.

At that, Malfoy stood up, and Harry took a rapid step backwards which nearly landed him in the middle of an eavesdropping group of third years. The blond Adonis slammed his book shut and looked around at his fellows.

“Do some more research and decide for yourselves,” he instructed coolly, but then smiled and added, “but until then, don’t you think tormenting him is so much fun?”

Harry only just maintained his observer’s role at that remark as all the indignity he had suffered at the hands of the degenerate welled up inside him; he was hot all over, bristling with defiance, and he balled his hands into fists as he watched his enemy stride away from his friends. He stood there fuming for a while, glaring daggers at the easy stride and self-confident manner of the Prince until he disappeared to the dorms, but finally, the hidden youth decided it was probably prudent to leave before his temper got the better of him. A little shaky in the knowledge that he was a favourite topic in the Slytherin dungeon, Harry followed another pupil out, and disappeared back to his room to consider what he had heard.

~

The point that made Harry dwell was the discussion about his imperviousness to magic; he hadn’t really thought about it since Malfoy’s trial curse, because other things like making inkstands dance had taken over; in fact, he had thought that maybe it had gone away. Yet, from Pansy’s tale, it was clear that magic was still bouncing off the Boy Who Lived, and in light of his freehand knowledge, it was faintly worrying.

_Denial_ had been his enemy’s theory, and the fact that it had been considered so closely by his nemesis was also not a pleasant thought. It was clearly only direct spells which he blocked by whatever means his brain had found, since Malfoy’s powders and devices had worked with calculated efficiency, and on the surface, it sounded like a good defence, especially since he was vulnerable in every other way. Yet this was not something Harry could control, and as he tried to get a handle on his life, the young Mr Potter wanted as much control as he could muster; so it was that he decided on his second avenue of attack...

“...Any idea how I’m blocking spells?” Harry asked Mademoiselle Yneme as casually as he could manage while they moved a large bowl of water into the centre of the room.

They stopped, and the French beauty looked at him over the glistening surface, her deep eyes wide with surprise at the question. The youth had been working up to it since the tutelage had begun, and it had finally just come out as his impatience had got the better of his caution.

“They bounce right off,” Harry shrugged apologetically at the disquiet he had caused, “and I wondered if it has anything to do with Freehanding?”

His teacher recovered herself, guided their burden the rest of the way to the floor and encouraged her pupil to join her, cross-legged on the opposite side of the bowl. Harry sat down and waited for an opinion.

“Yes and no,” the woman replied, a frown making lovely furrows in her tanned forehead. “Every person with magic can defend themselves in difficult times. Some it comes to when they need it, some it does not. You sent out a spell to destroy and something kept you safe. It is part of what makes you a Freehand, but not all, and I do not know of another like you who had the same gift. It is good, because it keeps you safe in a difficult time, but there will be a day when you let it go.”

The youth felt a lot better about his defence when he heard words like ‘gift’ and ‘good’, and he relaxed with a relieved smile.

“You were worried about this?” the mademoiselle looked at him with her usual lightly chiding temperance.

Harry grinned, her face made him light inside when she gazed at him like that.

“Aren’t I always?” he dismissed.

~

Harry had begun to form a plan of attack to remove Malfoy from his role of tormentor once and for all, and mention of his defensive barrier had given him ideas. The youth stood in the Room of Requirement and stared at the strange contraption that the chamber had left for him in the middle of its otherwise emptiness. He hadn’t really known what he needed to do what he wanted to do, but obviously the room had, because he was faced with a catapult-like device and about twenty projectiles ranging from soft and squadgy, to hard with nasty looking points.

It was a very manual device for a wizard to be using, there being latches and levers and a piece of string which allowed him to stand in the path of the projectiles while operating the machine, but then, without a wand, Harry needed such assistance. So, he had placed the softest missile into the bowl of the throwing arm, and was now standing in front of it while trying to find his magic. He knew what he wanted to do, he wanted to do the same to physical objects as he did to spells; he needed something to keep him and Malfoy apart, to stop that groping, violating contact which could weaken his resolve and the thought of which made him unfailingly horny. The barrier would protect him while he told his nemesis to get lost.

There was only one problem with the perfect plan, and that was creating the barrier in the first place; Harry didn’t even know if he was capable of it, since all his triumphs had been tiny compared to what he was working on. Yet, he could do it with spells, a far more complex issue than mere matter, so he had hope. Still, he hadn’t mentioned this to anyone else, it was very ambitious, and he didn’t want Mademoiselle Yneme offering him caution, as was her way, when he tried to do too much and made himself pass out. If it worked, it worked, and he would use it against Malfoy, if it didn’t then there’d be another way.

Taking a deep breath, Harry reached for his skills as the long hours of training had taught him; getting hold of them now was easier, but making them do anything was not. He could feel the rush of energy in his belly, telling him that he had the ability to do anything, and he reached for it. He formed the idea of a wall in his mind, and put it just in front of him; it was quite difficult to see the barrier when he opened his eyes, but it was almost there, a protection between him and a cushion in the face. Holding it, and his breath, the youth pulled on the cord of his attacker.

He landed on his backside on padded ground as, with surprising force, the puffed projectile hit him on the forehead. With a sigh, Harry looked up at his new nemesis and decided it was going to be a long evening.

~

Several days, lots of bruises and a black eye later, Harry had managed to block some of the heavier ammunition from his catapult. The wall wasn’t perfect, it only blocked a certain amount of force, but bolstered on his success, he decided it was time to face his tormentor. It was his turn to be waiting in dark corners, watching for a time to get Malfoy alone, and working on what he had to say, and that chance came on a dismal Saturday morning. It was early, but Harry was not sleeping consistently these days, and so he had gone to prowl his ambush spots, checking out the lay of the land one more time. He had not expected to meet his quarry at such a lonely hour, but it appeared that Malfoy was also a light sleeper, because the pair came face to face outside the charms classroom.

Malfoy looked surprised for all of a second, as Harry planted himself in the middle of the corridor and glowered, then the expression on his angular features turned to amused knowing, and he taunted, “I wondered whether giving you enough rope, you’d come and hang yourself.”

Who was supposed to be on the offensive? Harry felt his cheeks get hot, not to mention other parts of his anatomy as he was faced with the flash of desire in his opponent’s eyes. In defence of everything he thought worthy, the youth put out his barrier, the only evidence of which was a shimmer to the air, and he charged, “I didn’t come here for any of your games, Malfoy.”

“Then why are you so pleased to see me?” his enemy countered, his eyes running over Harry’s crotch where his jeans had begun to bulge.

Harry gritted his teeth, and tried to settle his emotions, but that was not easy when his body was doing what it liked. Malfoy took a step towards him; Harry resisted the urge to step away, and allowed himself some satisfaction when his opponent collided with his protection. However, Malfoy didn’t frown like he was supposed to, in fact he seemed mildly impressed and his smile was not helping Harry’s resolve: keeping the barrier in place, fighting his rampant libido and trying to formulate what he had to say were three very difficult juggling balls, and he struggled to make sense as he ordered, “Just leave me alone, Malfoy.”

“You came to me,” his rival pointed out, apparently not finding the obstruction at all imposing as he commented, “and what an effort you’ve made. Showing off are we?”

“No,” Harry objected, and confessed before he could stop himself, “I just don’t want you near me.”

“Really,” Malfoy smiled and put his hands on his hips, looking his adversary up and down with obvious lust. “Isn’t there something you want to do to me, Harry?”

“Shut up.”

“What’s the matter, a little too close to the truth, am I?” his tempter teased Harry, and denial would not come in words; still, he fought to maintain his physical defence. “I’ve hurt you, I’ve humiliated you, what does that make you want to do to me, Harry?”

Part of the youth wanted to turn and run, but his feet rooted to the spot, and his groin throbbed remorselessly as he looked into the intoxicating, wanton stare which told him he was not going to leave. Yet there was more than just lust in his body; anger tumbled in his soul, resentment of this beautiful man who had made him suffer, and he clung on to it as his only mental defence.

“I’ve touched you, taken what I wanted. I’ve made you ache with sickness, and I’ve made you hot at the same time,” Malfoy lorded the truth at him, and defence was no longer possible. “Make me pay, Harry.”

The youth attacked. He went for his enemy, his rage burning inside, and he grabbed that soft blond hair and used it to cause his nemesis pain. Malfoy gasped, but offered no fight as Harry fixed him round the waist and bent his neck as he had done before; hands took his shoulders, but his adversary did not push Harry away, instead, long fingers stroked over his shirt, and a smile greeted his domination.

“Take me,” Malfoy urged the tense attacker, “do what you want.”

Harry looked at the bright eyes, and the moist mouth. He ran his tongue over his own lips, letting the rage and hunger build in him, forming together until they drowned any other thought. There was no going back from here, he was holding his enemy in his torturous embrace, and he wanted him, no doubt, no other thought. With a growl, the youth brought sensuous, ready lips up to his own.

Malfoy melted to him like wax in a mould, and Harry loosened his grip just a little. Pleasure sparked all over his body, where hands rubbed his shoulders and arousal brushed his own. He gasped, as the throbbing in his loins became waves of heat coursing out through his muscles, and his open mouth was urged wider by the incredible feel of probing tongue. Harry didn’t really notice control slipping away: he took that gloriously insistent tongue into his mouth with shots of delight running down his spine; he let Malfoy’s touch run along his arms, until fingers wound with his own, shuddering at the pleasure that followed his light palms; even when his companion pushed him backwards into the wall, Harry allowed it to happen, rubbing against the body which pressed into his with greater force.

Nothing mattered except the sensations that cascaded through his body, and the lust-locked youth surrendered his pleasure to his partner. There was no need for manacles as he held his arms up away from his body where Malfoy put them; he gripped back at the controlling fingers, but not to hinder them, only to communicate his wont. Malfoy reacted by breaking their kiss, his eyes twinkling with desire as he pulled his upper torso back and surveyed his gasping, trembling companion. Harry whined and then panted as Malfoy, with slow deliberation, moved his hips and their erections met; those wild grey eyes closed for a moment, and breath came in small draws as the instigator succumbed to his own actions, but when they opened again, they showed purpose. Harry groaned as the pressure was removed, and shivered as their bodies parted altogether, but Malfoy kissed away his sound, and then whispered in his ear, “Let me see how much you want me.”

The leader drew away again, and looked down between their taut bodies; Harry’s arousal pulsed at the heavy attention, and he was more than ready to undo his own clothing as fast as possible, but there was one problem, Malfoy still had hold of his hands against the wall. He flexed into the hold, but his partner was leaning on his grip, and his frustration was met with a heady smile.

“You don’t need hands,” Malfoy murmured, and then urged more intently, “Show me.”

Harry closed his eyes and tipped his head back, base needs finding his skills far faster than any rational thought. He knew what he wanted, and trembling with desire, he put his focus to work. Raw magic mixed with his already heated body, and he moaned as it touched his hard shaft. He heard sound catching in his controller’s throat, but he kept his eyes tight shut, concentrating on what he had been told to do. Slowly, he felt the button of his fly give way; he shuddered and paused with a gasp as the invisible touch threatened to take him over the edge before his task was finished. The wash of pleasure settled, and his direction went to work on the zip. This time, his own groan was joined by one from Malfoy, and as the fly came open, and he looked down at his work, he knew why; Harry found out that Malfoy didn’t wear any under garments, at least not at weekends, as when he looked down he saw that he had not merely undone his own clothing, because, revealed between the two halves of his separated jeans, proud and ready, was his partner’s erection.

“Very good, Harry,” Malfoy praised breathlessly, and then he sunk swiftly down to his knees.

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as his arch-rival came to stillness with his eyes firmly fixed on where his own underwear was still partially concealing his desire. He murmured, suddenly vulnerable again, as, slowly, his companion reached for the shorts, and gently pushed them down out of the way. The youth looked at himself, and the focused desire which showed in the face held only a breath away from his twitching cock. Not quite believing how he had arrived at this moment, Harry sunk against the wall. His knees went weak, a shiver running up his body, but he managed to stay upright as the damp lips he had felt on his mouth, lightly brushed one side of his shaft. A lick of tongue made his erection sing, and elicited a heady groan, but as he thought he might fall over, hands pushed his abdomen against the wall. From there the world flipped out into nothing but the throbbing ache of his arousal, and Harry had no hope of controlling his exclamations as thumbs rubbed his balls. He tipped his head back and panted helplessly as finally warm moistness enveloped him.

Harry had little experience with sex of any kind, and his own ministrations gave no comparison to the soft, but demanding touch that ran the length of his cock. He struggled against it as it threatened to make his brain explode, but surrendered to it with equal abandon. Malfoy let him move a little, just enough to show him that no matter what he did, he could turn it into waves of ecstasy, and the youth submitted himself to the all-encompassing sensations. The ruling mouth took him to his zenith, pushing him over the top with zeal. Harry cried out and bucked as he shot his seed into his adversary’s throat and what was left of the world tumbled away in mind-numbing rapture.

When he came back to himself, a hand on his chest was holding Harry upright, and wide, dilated pupils looked into his gaze. Malfoy’s pale skin was flushed, and his excitement was still very obvious as Harry broke from the stare and looked down at it. It wouldn’t take much, the youth could see from the glistening head, and, still reeling from his own orgasm, he reached to experience his opponent’s. Malfoy remained totally still, watching as well, as Harry brushed against the base of the arousal first. His heart fluttered as his finger tips explored the forbidden fruit; this is what had abhorred him when he had first felt it against his body, this is what had made him shudder, and now it made him tremble with delight.

Lightly, he placed thumb and finger either side of the hot shaft, and drew them up its length: Malfoy murmured his pleasure, and shivers ran into Harry through the hand that was still pressed against his chest. Holding his breath, he licked his lips with anticipation, sparks of bliss still going off in his head, and the youth pressed gently against the meniscus of the clear fluid at his partner’s tip. Malfoy was almost there, and his shudder of wont urged Harry to the completing move. His own body hot with desire, Harry rubbed his thumb against the twitching head of his arch-rival’s penis, and then closed his hand around the straining organ. Malfoy thrust into the enveloping touch, once, twice, and then, he tipped his beautiful head back and cried his orgasm like a dragon claiming his prize. Warm liquid spurted into his hand, and Harry’s body struggled to contain the erotic pulse that ran through it. He was spent: he let go of his adversary and finally sunk down the wall, reeling with the left-over sensations and returning thought.

Real-world considerations hadn’t mattered as lust had taken over, but as he looked back up at Malfoy’s wide, victorious smile, Harry felt used; he had been goaded into forgetting all his intentions, and the acts to which he had submitted made him feel dirty.

“Knew you had it in you, Potter,” the Slytherin rammed home how well he had played the libidinal strings of his puppet. “Be seeing you.”

Then the blond youth just turned and walked away, adjusting his clothing as he went. Harry stayed in the messy pile he had become at the base of the wall, drifting in the indubitable pleasure he had just experienced, but gradually sinking from the high, as guilt and disgust crept back in.


	6. Mastery of the Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry reaches a point of no return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

The rest of the weekend was hard in several senses of the word; Harry spent most of it hidden behind the curtains of his bed, with a ‘headache’ which was actually an ache in a part of his anatomy a lot lower down. Despite the Gryffindor feelings of shame, and memories of Aunt Petunia’s lecture on self-abuse, the memory of the encounter would not go away, and it never failed to make the youth in need of self-relief. However, the weekend was nothing compared with Monday in classes. The fact that he shared his advanced level lessons with Malfoy could not be escaped, and Harry had several very uncomfortable classes, which to his chagrin, pleased his enemy.

Ron and Hermione had begun to wonder why their friend had his robes wrapped around himself wherever he went, and had enquired as to his health on several occasions by the time Harry told them that he was quite alright, and then fled. He was supposed to be going to the library to use a free period to study for a transfiguration’s test, but, instead, he headed to the Room of Requirement, hoping some practice would wear him out.

“Hello, Potter,” his Slytherin nemesis greeted as he reached out for the door handle, and to his self-disgust, shots of anticipation ran down Harry’s spine at the sound.

“Go away, Malfoy,” he ordered, not daring to turn round.

“‘Go away’, ‘Leave me alone’: you keep saying things like that, and yet look what you really mean,” Malfoy teased and pushed open the door.

Harry went hot and cold as he saw not his training room laid out in front of him, but what looked a lot more like a sex-maniac’s boudoir: a bed was sat at the centre of the room, a bed sporting additions that were not meant for sleep. Malfoy shoved him from behind, and he staggered into the room, unable to believe what his need had created. The door closed behind him, and he spun on the spot, to be greeted by a superior grin and casual lust. It was the flippancy which reached his anger first, and he hissed his warning, “Not again.”

“You seemed to enjoy it last time, and I certainly did,” his adversary pouted and took a step towards him.

“No!” Harry objected, and his rage found the same kind of defensive skills that he had first used in the cottage.

The rush was unstoppable, and the Freehand stared as his opponent flew backwards on a wave of rejection and collided with the doorway he’d been blocking. Malfoy’s skull contacted with wood, and his eyes rolled in his head. The crumpled form landed at the base of the door, and in the sudden silence Harry just shook. He felt sick, and disoriented, and angry and guilty and a hundred other emotions that clashed in his belly as he looked at his unconscious enemy. What had he done? Suddenly anxious, Harry skidded over to his victim and felt for a pulse; Malfoy drew a deep breath and groaned before the panicking youth could find his wrist let alone a pulse, and then something else in Harry decided that he liked the helplessness in his opponent, because his still coursing skills reached out and stopped consciousness from returning.

Harry shocked himself. He knew he’d just snuffed out awareness, but why took longer to surface. Guilt took second place to the dark part of Harry that Malfoy had been cultivating, and the eroticism of complete power over his subject flooded his system. This is what Malfoy had encouraged from him, this is what the taunts had meant, and Harry began to like the idea of paying back subjugation with subjugation. He should have moved the body and left, but instead, the youth looked round at the bed, and followed his instincts.

Malfoy was heavier than his sculpted frame suggested, and he’d lost both his shoes as Harry had dragged him across the floor. His captor decided that he didn’t need his socks either, and pulled them off before he hauled him onto the bed. There were straps already in place on the four-poster’s pillars, and Harry positioned his subject in the centre of the bed, kneeling across the slowly rising and falling chest, and put out a hand to catch the first restraint. Yet he’d enjoyed removing the socks, it had sent little shots of dominant pleasure all through his body, and Harry changed his mind about binding his victim too quickly. Instead, he shifted back down Malfoy’s still body, pausing as he straddled the groin, hovering his own already starting arousal close to the hidden delight inside his adversary’s trousers, and he decided he wanted to see.

Harry started small, testing his wont for this path as he pulled shirt from trousers and ran his hands up under Malfoy’s uniform. His loins told him that this was exactly where he wanted to go, as tingling told him that aching was not far away. He pushed the jumper and shirt up off the firm muscles he found beneath, rubbing his palms luxuriously over smooth skin, and then dragging his nails back over the six-pack, making red trails; pleasure woke up some more, and Harry answered it with a frenzy which removed all of his prisoner’s upper garments in one go and saw then dumped on the floor. Gasping from his exertion, the youth settled his spread thighs over Malfoy’s hips, and revelled in the intimate contact, still separate, but tantalisingly close.

Harry let the pique soften to what was now a definite, pulsating ache in his genitals, and then shifted once more. He shivered as he lifted himself off his plaything, and wriggled down the bed until he was across Malfoy’s knees; it could have been a very vulnerable position, and the youth wallowed in it, checking the face of his unconscious victim. Feeling his control in every touch, Harry took hold of Malfoy’s trousers and undid them. They came off with surprising ease as he lowered them first to the knee, and then, leaning behind, tugged the legs until his puppet was free.

That left only boxers, which, Harry noted with a smile in memory of their first sexual encounter, Malfoy wore during the week. He licked his lips and surveyed the last bastion of his enemy’s dignity. His own erection straining against the confines in which he left it, Harry leant over Malfoy’s body, and took hold of the elasticated waistband. Slowly, savouring the sight of, first pale hair, and then flaccid, vulnerable cock, the youth pulled down the underwear. His breath tight, Harry reached out and ran one finger down over the soft organ and then on round and down over his balls; Malfoy was warm, and clean and velvety, and his master stroked the unprotected body, as his own responded to the touch.

A deeper draw of breath broke Harry’s reverie, as it told him his victim was coming round; swiftly, he shifted and pulled the boxers all the way off, and then reached for the straps. By the time grey-blue eyes blinked open, showing confusion and disorientation, Harry had bound Malfoy and had slid off the end of the bed, standing back, excitement pounding his heart as he surveyed his work. His subject’s instant reaction to the feeling of being tied was to struggle, and Harry’s groin throbbed as he watched his groggy captive shift and complain as the thick straps held. Yet, as Malfoy came round more fully, he stopped moving, and his attitude changed. With a deep breath, he relaxed, and looked over to his now not so sure master; Harry looked right back into those widening eyes, and then knew he’d lost control, no matter what the odds, as he was given a smile.

“Well, well, Harry, you have been busy,” Malfoy approved, bending one knee and letting his leg fall to the side; it did what it was supposed to do, and dragged Harry’s attention to his subject’s groin, and he recognised the start of arousal: his own trousers were getting far too tight. “You won’t, you will, am I to take this as a consent to my proposal?”

Harry said nothing, but he was panting as he re-met his partner’s gaze.

“You want to take me, then show me.”

The youth knew what was meant; his magic excited his partner, and as he was devoured by the captured gaze, he wanted to be exciting. Aroused, and powerful, Harry found it surprisingly easy to let go and let his skills answer his need. This time, he did not close his eyes, he used Malfoy’s direct, alluring stare to focus his concentration, and brought invisible hands to bear on his clothing. His captive lay back and admired as the captor unfastened buttons and gradually revealed his body. Harry wasn’t wearing a jumper, he had been too hot and bothered all day to put up with it; his tie slid undone and his shirt and gown slipped off his torso as forces ran over his skin.

He liked the wideness of his lover’s eyes as they ran over his battle-hardened body, and he stood taller, displaying himself like a dominant stag. His trousers went next, falling off his slender hips, and he stepped out of them and his shoes and socks. Malfoy’s gaze ran down as far as he could see, and then back up one muscled leg until it hovered at the loose edges of his shorts; Malfoy licked his lips. Harry’s mental hands took hold of his last remaining modesty, and as slowly as he had pleased himself with Malfoy’s underwear, he tantalised his prisoner. Where his partner was blond and soft, he was dark and wiry, and he showed it to his captive, the act making the ache almost too much.

Malfoy was hard and his breathing was tight when Harry finally stepped out of his clothing; that effect gave the youth back some power and it was his turn to smile.

“Like what you see, Malfoy?” he asked, and was given an open-mouthed, come and get me demand.

“Open the drawer,” Malfoy looked towards a bedside cabinet, and as Harry did so, its drawer slid forward.

The standing youth could see within, and he didn’t know what a pot of lubricant looked like, but he could guess when he laid eyes on a black jar.

“Call it to you,” his subjugated controller instructed, and then added, “use a spell.”

A more lucid, less sex-craven Harry might have objected to that suggestion, spells were still way beyond his meagre skills, but the creature who was displaying for his lover did not even think about it.

“Accio jar,” he commanded, and his magic jumped to obey.

The feeling was incredible, as his whole body arced the magic, and he felt his will being done; Malfoy laughed, but not with derision this time as Harry’s passion throbbed and drew out a groan from him and he almost dropped the pot which landed in his hand.

“Lets hope you don’t come every time you cast a spell, it could be debilitating,” the blond joked, but his face showed he was impressed.

Harry didn’t answer him; he just removed his glasses, climbed onto the bed and held onto his instincts as legs were spread wide for him. He swallowed and just looked for a moment as Malfoy shifted his hips and lifted himself off the bed, giving him a good view of his tight arse. On the verge of another taboo, the youth paused and let his senses catch up; his whole body was awake and listening to his pleasure, and his skills were listening too, because the top came off the jar without his conscious consent.

“Cover yourself and then prepare me,” Draco told him with far more experience than he had imagined.

Harry put the jar down beside them, and then found his abilities again. He looked up his partner’s body and met his dilated gaze, holding still as his will coated his burgeoning arousal in slickness. Then those penetrating eyes were gone, as with a groan, Draco tipped his head back and accepted a touch into his cleft. He lifted off the bed again, and Harry watched as his intent trailed the lubrication up between the cheeks. Both youths tensed as the raw magic breached the offered opening, and Harry didn’t know if it was his imagination that caused the explosions in his head, or if he really felt the erotic power come back at him and let him know what he was doing to his captive. Whichever it was, he stayed there a moment, moving his will in and out of the tight muscle ring, drawing moans from his partner.

Harry knew when they were both ready, his magic told him and he was received gladly by his lover as he moved them into position. Draco held himself up until Harry took his legs and then he was controlling everything. He put the head of his erection up against the glossy entrance, savouring the tight press of muscle, and he met gazes with Malfoy; his tormentor, his enemy, his captive, his lover looked back at Harry and asked for invasion. Savage and powerful, the master penetrated his prisoner. Draco let out a long sound somewhere between pain and pleasure, and despite the lubrication, he was tight and difficult around Harry’s shaft; gasping and trembling with the incredible sensation of being surrounded by strong muscle, Harry stopped only a little way in, adjusting to the new feelings, and letting his partner adjust with him. Yet his lover was not satisfied, and he received a demand, “Further.”

Bracing Draco’s hips, the youth obeyed, sliding deeper into the heady pressure. Malfoy panted and struggled with the impalement, his hands grabbing handfuls of sheet; Harry gasped his own bliss as shoots of pleasure created by the movements ran from his shaft out to every part of his being. Almost fully surrounded, Harry waited again, grappling back some control, he wanted to make this last.

“Merlin, move, now,” Draco urged breathily, but Harry smiled and made him wait.

Malfoy tightened around him, and the youth whined.

“Do it,” his captive ordered, and, seeing stars, Harry withdrew.

The protective muscle rings nearly closed on him, but he played with his toy and drove back in; Draco almost screamed as he paid for his demand and was taken fully this time. The writhing was nearly too much for Harry, but he clawed onto his climax, holding it back until the gasping, uncoordinated reaction calmed.

“Bastard,” Draco told him, and then breathed, “That was good.”

Harry moved more fluidly next time; he didn’t want to damage his source of such wonderful feelings, and Malfoy began to relax into the penetration. Climax wasn’t far away, he had had plenty of experience over the last few days to know when he was at the edge, so he stayed deep, moving a little, in and out, and he found an angle which made his lover groan and tense gloriously every time. A few more thrusts and he found his precipice: Harry drew out and drove back in one more time, and then cried out as he spiralled into ecstasy.

When he came down, his muscles went weak, and he collapsed out of the embrace onto the bed beside his companion. He buried his face into the mattress and let his breathing and heart beat return to normal levels. The pleasure took a lot longer to dissipate, going from waves into eddies and finally tingles. It wasn’t his own will power that brought him out of his daze.

“Let me go,” Malfoy told him; Harry looked up and across at the flushed face of his lover, and was instructed, “Free me, I have something for you.”

His eyes cast down his body, and then Harry’s libido stood up and took notice again; Draco was still erect, the waves of bliss had not finished his arousal. As his mind undid the straps, whether his brain wanted him to or not, he wondered if his body could take any more.

~

Harry lay with his head on his arms and tried to relax, but his excitement knotted in his stomach as he felt the bed move, and knew even his notionary control had gone. He didn’t trust his partner, but that made things more tantalising as he faced the second new experience of the hour. He tensed as Draco straddled his legs and started as hands ran over his ribs. He was not expecting the touch of lips on one buttock.

“Virgin,” Harry looked rapidly over his shoulder, his face burning despite the truth of the statement, in time to see and feel Draco kiss his other cheek, and finish, “territory.” He glared at his lover for that little piece of observation, but was given a hungry smile in return that made his stomach do somersaults. “Just relax,” he was told.

Easier said than done when your worst enemy was making sparks fly in your brain just by being there, and Harry was certainly not relaxed when he felt slick fingers run up the length of his cleft. Malfoy spread him, teasing the sensitive skin with his thumbs, and massaging his buttocks. When finger tips played over his tight entrance, the sensation was absolutely unique and Harry drew in a hasty breath. The touch felt dangerous, intrusive, but it tantalised his muscles, pushing against them and threatening more. When more came, the youth choked on air: a firm, but slow pressure opened the ring of muscle, burning a little as he resisted, and then he was infiltrated by a slick digit. It hurt, and Harry instinctively tried to move away from the breach, but Malfoy ordered, “Stay still.”

He tried, he really tried, but his body wanted to move, not sure if it liked the intrusion or not. Draco’s reaction to his struggle was to push further in, and Harry whined as his entrance complained about the new action.

“Merlin, you’re tense,” his partner almost complained and moved his finger around in situ.

“Oh bloody hell,” Harry let out the breath in his lungs and grabbed sheet as his body decided that the input was both pain and pleasure; his muscles ached, but the burning lessened as the touch spread cooling lube over the sensitive passage, and other sensations took over from it.

As the finger moved again, it was less difficult to let it slide in a little bit deeper and then out almost all the way, and it felt good, it felt really good: Harry moaned.

“That’s better,” Draco praised, a little more forceful still with his next massage. “You want more?”

The youth didn’t know if he wanted more, but it was not really a question; he knew that his adversary would not be taking no as an answer, and so he just murmured his pleasure. More was the withdrawal of the one finger, and then the pressure of two; Harry gasped, and his grip on the sheet which had been loosening, raked in more cloth. It burnt again, threatening hurt, but the discomfort eased with greater speed in the already lubricated muscles, and Harry relished the return of the deeper touch and he moved into it.

“Fast learner,” his partner chuckled, but there was heat in his sound as he gave Harry all the depth he wanted.

Spread and exposed, Harry wanted more and his moans told his lover everything that conscious thought could not. He moved his hips with the massage, pushing back, following the digits as they slid and screwed against his anus.

“More?” Malfoy teased him and he just growled back.

Always the disappointing withdrawal before more, and as the fingers were taken away, Harry lifted himself off the bed and complained. Hands took his hips and pushed him back down onto the mattress and then he felt more, so much more. Draco took revenge for the ramming he had been given earlier as he forced himself into his lover; it was not as fast as Harry had done, but it brooked no refusal from his untutored arse, and Harry groaned long and loud into the bed. Malfoy came to stillness buried all the way in to Harry, his breath hissing through his teeth as the virgin spasmed around the intrusion: Harry’s pleasure centres were on overload, but so were some of his pain receptors.

“How does that feel?” Draco asked huskily, pushing a little harder and proving that he could force still more from his partner.

Harry had no answer, conscious thought in the face of so much new sensation was nigh on impossible, he just grunted and pushed back. Malfoy’s breath caught in his throat, and he laughed again as he taunted, “If your friends could see you now, Potter.”

That got Draco precisely nowhere, because right then the only thing Harry cared about was the hard, hot penetration. Nothing else mattered, not Freehanding, not who his lover was, not the cruel violations which had brought him to this point, just the exotic, intense, full feeling.

“Oh Merlin, move, please,” Harry knew he was begging, but his pleasure centres had never been so alive.

“Anything for a worthy enemy,” Malfoy teased, but then he withdrew a little way and his one-time victim forgot what words were.

Harry had no power over the exclamation that came from deep in his throat as he was speared again, and the action brushed a completely new type of pleasure; Draco moved quickly again, out and then in, and touched the same point, harder this time: Harry let go of the sheet because he lost all muscle control.

“Ah, I’ve found it,” his partner told him breathily. “Good, isn’t it?”

The youth just waited for him to do that again, and again, and again. Malfoy didn’t need any instruction, he just kept blowing Harry’s mind, sometimes hard, sometimes soft, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and Harry gave him access to everything he wanted. Harry had no idea which way the world was supposed to be by the time his partner jerked suddenly into him, and hit that spot one final time. Draco screamed something incoherent as he orgasmed, straining against his lover and cascading sensations as he moved with the ecstasy. Harry bit the ruck of cloth that the sheet had become below him, and let his muscles do what they wanted to. The world went away for a long second as he saw stars, and then there was a body lying on top of him.

Malfoy was breathing hard, and his damp chest spasmed against Harry’s back.

“I’ve -,” Draco grabbed in air, “under-,” another gasp, “estimated -,” a cough, “your talents,” a long draw of breath, “Potter.”

Harry wasn’t coherent enough to reply to any wit, instead, he moaned as his partner withdrew and fell off him and then slowly turned his head to look at his sweaty, open-mouthed adversary. He had to agree that he’d never had such a concentration of pleasure in one burst before, and for the first time in his life, Harry decided that sex was fun.

~

Neither lover spoke much as, after a period of silent recovery, they each stood up and found their clothes. Malfoy threw a few more quips, but they quit each other’s company without serious comment. However, as Harry went to the showers to clean himself up, he found himself thinking about ‘next time’. His sleeping dreams dwelt on next time, and his waking ones too, and he started walking down dark corridors again, waiting for contact. Yet his nemesis barely acknowledged him all week, except when teasing the squib with his fellow Slytherins and Harry’s hope began to dwindle and turn to resentment of the manipulating bastard, Malfoy, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had been responsible for their last encounter.

It wasn’t until the following Monday that his libido was given vent. Harry was walking down a not particularly dingy hallway, and he, once again, failed to notice the slightly open door of a familiar storage room. His heart leapt into his throat as a hand grabbed his wrist, and he was yanked into the bolt hole, and he almost forgot not to fight. He was pushed up against the wall by a frenzied body, and dexterous fingers unzipped his flies before he could really respond. His groan as a hand encircled his cock was cut off by demanding lips, and then his own hunger reached the surface. Malfoy’s trousers didn’t stand a chance as Harry’s instincts grabbed some magic and sent them down to his knees, underwear and all. His lover seemed to like that, because he rubbed against the palms that covered his buttocks, and then Harry felt another shaft next to his in Draco’s long fingers. There, the frenzy paused, and, teasing gently, his partner leant back, looking into his face and asked, “Miss me?”

“What do you think?” Harry retorted, and squeezed his handfuls of Malfoy butt.

“Oo, I’ve corrupted a Gryffindor,” Draco crowed.

“Shut up and make me scream,” the corruptee demanded.


	7. Reality Bites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yneme and Malfoy's influences are having their effect on Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

Harry tried to ignore the knot of dorm mates around Ron’s bed and get on with his homework. The essay he was working on was due that morning, and he had meant to finish it the night before after his training session in the Room of Requirement. However, Harry wasn’t training quite the way any of even those who knew about his freehand magic thought, since Malfoy was joining him most evenings and offering some x-rated incentives, and time had just disappeared.

It had been three weeks since their affair had begun, and Harry didn’t know if his nemesis was as hooked on his body as he was Draco’s (the Slytherin always played if cool, at least with his words), but the sex was great and compulsive. They weren’t friends; Malfoy could still be a cruel son-of-a-bitch in public and private, and sometimes he took what he wanted without consent, but then, so did Harry, who in no way trusted his rival. Harry wasn’t sure why his enemy was helping him develop; they certainly weren’t fighting, well not like they had in the sixth year, but the thought that Malfoy was planning, always scheming did sit at the back of his mind.

Harry paused his quill-scratchings at that point as it bothered him, again. However, then his thoughts wandered past the why onto the how and he put the brakes on. He was getting better at self-control, at least when Draco was not in the room, and forced his mind back to the potions essay via the thought of Snape’s retribution if he didn’t hand it in; Harry was never in Professor Snape’s good books, and since his exemption, the teacher had had the pupil firmly in his sights: any excuse and Harry knew he would be washing out potion jars for a week. Yet, there was another distraction that he had not considered, and it had to do with the whispering in the corner that he had been trying to ignore. He didn’t really notice when it stopped, but his hard-fought instincts for anything posing a vague threat set him on edge when he realised that a mob was on its way to his bed. Warily, he kept on writing.

“Harry, Mate, how are you?” Ron asked with enthusiasm, but just a note of something in his voice that made Harry look up as his best friend threw himself onto the bed next to him.

The youth looked around at his four friends; Ron was sat on the bed next to him, Seamus, Dean and Neville were stood in a semi-circle in front of him, and he was reminded of last April Fool’s day when some bright spark had put smile powder in the breakfast cereal. Aware something was wrong, but not quite sure what, Harry put down his quill and decided to look at Ron, whose eyes he could read best even if the rest of his face was in cuckoo land.

“Fine, thanks?” he half asked, not knowing if he was giving the right answer.

“Nothing you want to talk to us about?” Dean threw another question.

Unsure of himself, Harry shook his head and worried about the looks that jumped between all of his dorm mates. Ron took a deep breath and sounded more awkward as he pressed, “Been taking many cold showers lately?”

The cornered Gryffindor coloured as he realised what the hints meant; his friends had noticed his over-active libido.

“No, don’t be embarrassed,” Neville piped up quickly, “the chaps talked to me as well,” then he looked slightly uncomfortable as he finished, “in the fourth year.”

“Three years?” Harry confirmed; this conversation was not getting any better: first he’d been found out and second he was way behind the times.

“Don’t look so worried, Mate,” Ron smiled, genuinely this time, and patted his friend on the shoulder, “Up till now we thought you were too busy fighting evil and everything, but...”

“...this term you’ve been catching up,” Seamus finished.

“And what without a male role model at home,” Neville spoke again, and his face showed experience, “we thought you might like to talk about it.”

Harry left his homework altogether and sat up, not quite knowing what to say. He was in some ways glad that his mates cared enough to make the effort, but in others he was quite worried that he’d been noticed. His fears leapt right into focus, however, when Ron, clearly deemed best friend and filler of awkward pauses, began again, “Mate, we’ve also noticed that you’re interested in a certain person.”

His heart leapt into his throat at all the worried stares he was getting, especially when Dean continued, “And we know that you’re an adult and everything, so it’s your decision.”

“But we think you might want to look elsewhere,” Neville frowned heavily and shifted from foot to foot as he offered his advice.

Harry searched his head for something to say. How could he explain to his dorm mates about his infatuation with Draco Malfoy? His mortal enemy had become his bed partner; that little gem was not going to come out, of that he was sure, even if he did. However, the crazy dance his thoughts were doing came to an abrupt halt as Ron took up the conversation again and told him, “Because, after all, Mate, she is your teacher.”

The young man let out the breath that had been gathering in his chest with a laugh and gasped, “Mademoiselle Yneme? No, we’re just friends.”

The second round of looks he got said that in no way was he being believed.

“Honestly,” he assured them, but then rethought his defence and admitted, “Alright, she has a good body.”

“Merlin, doesn’t she!” Dean suddenly burst out his opinion, and there was a pained look on his face as he observed, “Those short skirts.”

“Those low tops,” Ron agreed, rolling his eyes and falling back onto the bed.

“Those...” Seamus didn’t actually say breasts, but his hands were in the classic position as he sighed.

“Oh Merlin, and when she talks about wand maintenance,” Neville bemoaned, and Harry could completely identify with the frustration in his voice; he may have been sleeping with another man, but his tutor’s assets never failed to keep him interested.

“You only have to sit through class,” he decided that it felt really good to be sharing some of his more raucous thoughts, and laughed as he recalled what most people thought was a counselling session with, “I have two hours with her one on one.”

“Figuratively speaking,” Neville revealed a whole new side that Harry had never seen as he cracked the risqué joke.

“No wonder you’ve been needing all those showers,” Seamus jibed, sounding a little jealous as he slapped Harry across the back; the youth smiled to himself at that one, and decided that Genevieve was a very good cover story.

~

Harry did just about finish his essay, but he wasn’t expecting outstanding marks for it, but then he never did; Snape could find flaws in anything Harry did, lots of them, and after the fifth year, he had just got used to ignoring his potions marks until it got to the exams. What did bother him was the sitting out of the Defence Against the Dark Arts practicals; this was something he excelled at, and as his Freehanding developed he was itching to give it a try against some of the interesting beasts and obstacles that were on the seventh year curriculum. However, there was one small problem, he was only casting spells under Malfoy’s tutelage, not Mademoiselle Yneme’s, and he had kept silent about his development since he had not found a way to explain that he could perform spells perfectly first time if he was naked and desperate to shag his school adversary, but that it didn’t work so well otherwise. Therefore, he remained diligently forcing around raw energy to do his bidding for the teacher who kept telling him how proud she was of his progress.

The clash of Malfoy’s and Yneme’s influences did not only run to juggling what he knew, and Harry sat up very rapidly as he noticed the clock on the wall of the Room of Requirement.

“Merlin!” he exclaimed, “I have fifteen minutes to get to training.”

Malfoy sat up as well, but he wasn’t interested in where Harry had to be. He ran his hands over his partner’s back, continuing the very pleasant petting in which they had been indulging before time had interrupted Harry, and told him bluntly, “I’m not finished with you.”

A palm ran over his hip and then fingers slid into the hair over his groin, but, breathing hard and trying to put down the ideas the come on generated, Harry grabbed the hand and held it away from its destination.

“No,” he ordered, and shifted away, to grab his underwear.

However, Draco was not in a negotiating mood, and his lover found out as, when he stood up to collect his clothes, he was grabbed and pulled down into a tussle. Harry fought back, but his companion had the advantage, and one wrist was in a strap before he could retaliate; the other followed and the youth thrashed at the bonds as his chest was straddled, but the leather was more than thick enough to hold him.

“Dammit, Malfoy,” he accused, stilling and looking up at his dominant lover; he couldn’t say he was exactly annoyed, more peevishly excited by the force, and he challenged it with a growl as Malfoy's hands went where they liked.

“Teacher can wait,” Draco told him, stroking his prisoner’s nipples.

He drew in a hasty breath and Malfoy smiled as Harry closed his eyes with consternated pleasure.

“You want her to come looking for me?” the youth tried some logic on himself as well as his tempter.

“The door’s locked,” his partner countered, and leant back to run his dancing fingers down Harry’s thighs.

The captive couldn’t help himself, he moved into the touch and let his loins be stroked.

“What do you want?” he found himself asking and then groaning as the pressure increased around his balls.

“To torture you,” Draco murmured, his tone thick with desire, and then his hold went beyond titillating.

Harry gasped and struggled; pain was nothing new to their relationship, but Malfoy always had a unique way of introducing it when Harry was least expecting it.

“Does that hurt?” his partner asked innocently, his grin and erection giving anything but a pure impression. “Am I being too rough for the little Gryffindor?”

“Let go,” Harry objected through gritted teeth; he wasn’t going to scream, pass out maybe, but as spots appeared in front of his eyes he was determined that he wouldn’t give his bastard lover the satisfaction of a cry.

“Make me,” Draco challenged with what had become his pet phrase, his gaze flashing with the danger he posed.

His victim had no doubt that Malfoy would do him damage if he didn’t do something: their games had no safety rules. He could have reached for the easy raw magic, but despite the harsh play, Harry enjoyed these games, and ease was not the point. He had to show power, and he had to take control. His response came out of that tussle for domination. His body arced magic before he had really thought of the spell, and then he focused with, “Imperio!”

Draco fought the hex, his face clouding with indignance, but Harry ordered, “Let go,” and the grip released before the magical battle was won or lost. Harry did not expect to control his partner for very long, but it was enough time for him to bring his knee up without fear of retaliation, and as the spell broke, Draco fell sideways with a groan. However, his captive wasn’t finished, and with a whisper of, “Diffindo,” the straps broke, he sat up and attacked Malfoy.

Harry dived on top of his opponent, grappling for his wrists before he could gather his wits to resist; Draco whined as his arms were wrench ruthlessly above his head, and then the new master cast his final charm, “Defigo.” Malfoy squirmed, and tried to kick, but sure of his power, the controller sat back onto his subject’s legs and smiled as his spell held sway. Draco didn’t fight for long: just enough time to bring colour to his skin and a wildness to his hair. His lover was very hard to resist when his grey eyes were lit with the excitement of the contest, even when he lost his defiance and dared Harry to take it further. Yet Potter clung on to the thought of awkward questions if he was late, and just enough sense stopped him from abandoning his meeting. To Malfoy’s mild chagrin, Harry climbed off of him and the bed.

Knowing the Slytherin’s persistence well by now, Harry did not release his prisoner while he pulled on his clothes.

“You use an unforgivable curse and then you leave?” Malfoy jibed, but he didn’t seem too bothered as he watched his partner move around the room collecting his distributed clothing; he smiled lustfully and shifted his hips as Harry looked over to him.

“Call me fickle,” the youth replied, having picked up a few quips from his nemesis along the way, but he decided to concentrate on hunting for his shoes as his resolve wavered in those eyes.

Harry liked his partner naked and vulnerable, Draco knew it, and he also knew that compliant hit all the right buttons as well; the disappointed pout that he was sent the next time he glanced Malfoy’s way was too much, and letting his good intentions slip just a little bit, the youth climbed back onto the bed and straddled his partner once more. Draco’s smile was the cat with cream, and he rubbed against the tough flannel of Harry’s uniform trousers. Harry settled for running his fingers into his partner’s soft mane and leaning down for a kiss. He opened his mouth and tasted the light orange of the oil, which they had been using earlier, on his lover’s lips, enjoying the shadows of the hour they had spent together. Yet, the faintness of the flavour also reminded him that it was over, and he broke the kiss. Draco had one last message for him, as he followed the retreat and bit hard on Harry’s bottom lip. The youth tensed, and tightened his grip on his partner’s hair as he sat up. Malfoy smiled again and licked blood off his own moist mouth as he gave in to the pull of hands on his scalp. Harry closed his eyes and held back all the urges he wanted to let run free as his own life-fluid ran under his tongue.

“Expedio,” he whispered, and shivered as his magic did his bidding, and then slid rapidly away from his lover as hands reached for him.

Without another word, he headed for the door.

~

Harry dashed back to the dorm and ducked under the shower to wash away his exertions. Neville was reading in the room, and laughed at him: Harry let him tease him about the effects of the anticipation of his one on one with the mademoiselle and then ran to the appointment. He hurried in to the classroom, out of breath and apologising, “Excusez moi, Mademoiselle. Je suis désolé.”

His tutor turned from a brewing pot of tea and smiled warmly, praising, “It is not only your magic I am improving, no?”

Harry grinned, he liked it when he pleased Genevieve; but then his satisfaction faltered, because the young woman’s face fell, and she hurried over to him, cupping his face in her hands, and led him over to the lamp beside her desk.

“What have you been doing?” she asked, and he started as she touched the swollen lip.

“Ran in to a statue,” he lied awkwardly, and the empath looked into his eyes with a knowing that he could not fool. “Got into a fight,” he covered, which was kind of true, and answered his companion’s sense of his discomfort.

“Will you tell me who?” Mademoiselle Yneme coaxed, blinking her deep brown eyes at him.

“Not done,” he countered, and broke away, trying to smile and make light of the moment.

His teacher tutted at him, but did not press the point, instead she went back to her tea pot and poured two cups.

“Here, drink this, you must be calm for your concentration,” his tutor returned to the matter at hand, but then hurried to her study behind the classroom and called over her shoulder, “Sit down on the table, I will find some salve for your mouth.”

Harry obeyed and sipped his tea; he was getting used to the sour taste of the leaves, but they stung the wound, for a moment -- that was until it went numb. Then he took a bigger mouthful and let the hot liquid run down his throat. He didn’t know if he was just getting to recognise the effects of the soothing tea, or whether he was imagining it, but his muscles began to relax almost immediately, and his mind followed. It was a nice free feeling after the exercise Malfoy had given him, and he let his thoughts drift. The youth was smiling to himself by the time Mademoiselle Yneme came back, and stood in front of his with a small pot that smelt of potions.

“This may sting,” she warned, dragging her finger slowly across the smooth surface of the gel within the ceramic as her pupil watched; she raised the digit slowly and Harry’s gaze followed until the pale residue went out of focus, and then he was left looking at an intent concentration that was centred on his lips.

Harry took a deep breath when his heart fluttered as his companion’s attention took his eyes to the pouty mouth where just a tip of moist tongue played over a full, red, bottom lip. He started again as his cut told him that it wasn’t completely numb when the salve touched it, and perfect white teeth caught against tacky skin in his avid view.

“Désolé,” she murmured.

The youth took in more staggered air and wished he’d let his libido settle down before making the meeting. The mademoiselle did not help matters when she smiled again and pressed harder against the broken lip.

“You like that,” Genevieve sounded surprised, and her eyes widened in shock.

Harry slid backwards on the table and felt his face get hot. He looked down at his knees, anywhere but at the dark gaze which had captured his kink. Fingers touched his burning cheek once more, and he didn’t resist as his attention was lifted back to the exotic beauty before him. Her look was dreamy, or maybe it was just in his mind, but then he was sure as a finger pressed definitely against the bruised flesh, and those teeth ran over damp lips, signifying the taboo. Harry played his breath past the probing finger, savouring the soreness and let the tea make it alright. His companion’s mouth opened, and she raised her chin; the youth was now familiar with a sexual hint, and slowly he parted his lips. He turned his head a little and surrounded the manicured digit with moist warmth and sucked.

Genevieve sighed, and stepped closer to the desk, and he parted his legs for her to come between them. Having so recently backed off, Harry stared into hazel eyes and slid forward once more, but not quite close enough to touch bodies. He smiled as his own tease started the faint pulsing of his loins and then ran his tongue over the hard edge of the nail in his mouth. The woman didn’t need much more of a come on, as she made the final move, and pushed her abdomen against Harry’s. The finger dropped away, but much more was offered and the youth opened his lips to accept the truest of French kisses. Hands snaked up behind him, pulling him in still closer to his companion’s welcoming breasts, and he rubbed his chest against the feeling of hardening nipples.

The mademoiselle’s dress was light, and its skirt wound easily into his hands as Harry ran his palms over taut thighs. He didn’t need any verbal message to know that Genevieve liked that, because the thrust against his growing arousal spoke for her; avidly, he gathered up the material until he found the bottom edge, and then he caused a warm murmur from his partner as skin met skin, and he stroked smooth flesh. He pushed his fingers up and under where the fabric had been, and discovered, to his twitching cock’s delight, that there was no more between his touch and wonderfully rounded buttocks: his teacher wasn’t wearing any knickers. Without pause, he slid one hand down between Genevieve’s legs, parting them a little way, and then brought it up. She gasped, pushing against him when she broke their kiss and buried her face into his shoulder as he touched damp forbidden territory. Her breath came tight against his neck as he hovered there, at the edge of desire, her body tense, and beginning to tremble. One shudder too much broke the impasse, and the youth heard his name whispered as he woke what was offered.

“Harry,” the name repeated, and he smiled at the promise in that sound. “Young one,” the tone was different this time, much more motherly, and Harry didn’t like it. “Wake up,” a third call, and the youth opened his eyes. He blinked at a face sideways on to him, and then realised he was lying down, on his side. Confused, and feeling uncomfortably thwarted, hastily he moved to sit up, but hands took his shoulders and slowed him down, and the mademoiselle soothed, “Gently, Young One, your sleep was deep, let it pass.”

“Wha-?” he stammered, suddenly unsure of himself, and he glanced around the classroom as he was helped to sit up on the same table on which his mind was telling him he’d begun to make love.

“You fall asleep,” Mademoiselle Yneme explained with a light laugh. “I am sorry, it was my tea, I think. It made the day catch up.”

The heady thoughts formed into the foolishness that they were, and the youth looked away, hoping that the empath had not picked up on any of them.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, getting off the desk.

“Do not be,” his wonderful tutor calmed, “sleep is good when it is needed. It releases difficult thoughts and cleanses the mind. We shall say it was good practice.”

“What time is it?” Harry asked sheepishly, trying to make the leftover horny dream go away.

“Our hours are finished, that is why I wake you,” the woman shrugged, but then smiled again and cajoled, “We do more next week.”

The youth nodded and then headed for the door.

“Bon Nuit, Mademoiselle.”

~

The journey back to Gryffindor Tower was much slower than the dash from it, and Harry dwelt on the images that were still running through his head. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had such thoughts before, or was the only one who fantasised about the lovely Mademoiselle Yneme, it was just that, in her classroom was a little too close for comfort. Ron was in the common room chatting, with his arm wrapped around his girlfriend. However, one look at Harry and his demeanour changed to lightly concerned curiosity. Since the manly bonding, the youth had learnt the signs for indicating the need to share his thoughts, and as he nodded to the dorm stairs, he made the appropriate facial expression. Ron had no difficulty interpreting said message, and Hermione understood some of at least the superficial inference as well, because she pushed her boyfriend to standing.

Harry made his way up to the dorm as soon as he knew he was going to be followed, and had thrown himself on his bed and grabbed a pillow before his best friend came in.

“What’s up, Mate?” Ron asked easily, sitting down and trying to look like the advisory big brother as he leant against one of the bed posts.

“I fell asleep in Mademoiselle’s classroom instead of practising -- on her desk,” Harry mourned, and then added as Ron failed to get the hint, “If she hadn’t woken me when she did, I’d have had a wet dream about her right there.”

The redhead snorted and Harry gave him a black look.

“It’s not funny, it’s embarrassing,” the youth complained. “I don’t know if I can go on like this. First the breasts,” Ron’s eyebrows hit his hairline, and Harry realised he hadn’t shared that little gem, and explained, “I walked into the classroom one evening and she was changing.”

“You mean?” his friend’s mouth went very round as he waved a hand in the area of his chest.

Harry nodded and clarified, “Nothing underneath her blouse, and it was all the way open.”

“Mate, you lucky sod,” Ron sounded really rather jealous.

“What, don’t you get enough of a view from Hermione?” Harry jibed, knowing full well from previous manly conversations that his two best friends had progressed to under the bra petting some time ago.

“That’s different,” his companion scoffed protectively, but then his eyes glazed over, and he was clearly having a nice mental image as he continued, “This was Mademoiselle Yneme, French goddess of the entire male school population.”

Genevieve stood on a plinth, posed and as naked as the Greek statues he’d seen on a visit to the British Museum, Harry had to admit, was an inviting picture, but even if his libido liked it, his head had had all that it could take for one day, and so he buried his face into his pillow and groaned.

~

Whether he slept well that night depended on Harry’s interpretation of ‘well’. He experienced some invigorating dreams involving both his real partner and his fantasy one, sometimes both at once, which left him excited and the sheets in need of changing, but which were not conducive to a good night’s sleep. He was laughed at by his dorm mates when he appeared, grey and dishevelled, the next morning; they all had nights like that. However, Harry discovered that sleep deprivation was only the first of his problems for that day. The second occurred during Transfigurations just before lunch.

It was a practical, so, as usual, Harry was sat watching Ron and was trying to ignore the itching in his fingers to have a go himself. His method of resisting what Mademoiselle Yneme had called during what she thought was a theory chat, ‘the Freehand addiction’, which was, in his practical experience, the erotic kick when he made his body arc magic, was to stick his nails into his hands and stuff them into his arm pits. He was therefore totally unprepared for the rather large sneeze that nearly knocked him off his chair, or the following quick succession of five more which did send him sailing forward into the desk. Already beleaguered nose contacted with hard wood, and the resulting flow of blood hurt a lot. Harry spent the rest of the lesson in the infirmary to make sure he hadn’t given himself concussion.

Coupled with everything else, Mademoiselle Yneme’s tea at lunchtime was not a good idea; already half asleep, and trying to ignore the throbbing of his nose, Harry missed the top step of a flight of stairs and landed ungracefully at the bottom in front of a delighted bunch of Slytherins. Harry had glared at them and tried to claw back some dignity, but he’d got tangled in his robes standing up and fallen over a second time, much to his observer’s amusement.

After that, the accidents just kept happening: he walked into a wall when he lost all sense of direction on the way to potions; threw up into Ron’s eye of newt, lost fifty house points for it and ended up back in Madame Pomfrey’s care just in case the second impact had done more damage than first thought; then finally lost hold of an essay he was proof-reading for Ron during afternoon break and spent ten minutes chasing the pages around the windy cloisters.

Harry was beginning to think that the Fates were conspiring against him and was heading back to his room to hole up for the remainder of the day when he found out that it wasn’t Fate at all: it was the Slytherins. Dark corners no longer held anything sinister for the youth, but as he took a long, unpopulated route back to Gryffindor Tower, he wasn’t expecting a spell to come out of one.

“Imperio!” Malfoy’s heated tones came from the shadows, and his target instinctively resisted the hex he could feel move into his mind; he fought the invading magic, stepping away from the direction of origin, but a command told him, “Stand still,” and he stopped moving. His nemesis stepped into the light and surveyed his work with satisfaction, and before his spell could be broken, removed it himself.

“Bastard!” Harry charged as soon as his thoughts cleared, but still strode up to his enemy and pulled him into an embrace.

Draco laughed as he was kissed, and his partner realised he had missed something in his urge to touch; that thing caught up with him and he stood back in alarm as he said, “You cast a spell on me.”

“You noticed,” Malfoy condescended, and then grabbed Harry by his tie and pulled him into the shadows. “Your barrier’s gone; my fellow house mates noticed this morning.”

Harry would have objected fiercely as the convenient placement of one or more Slytherins to witness his accidents suddenly made sense, but his lover slammed him up against the wall and distracted him. He submitted to the kiss because it made the entire bad day disappear into pops of blissful light. They lasted as long as Malfoy wanted them to, and then he leant his upper torso back; Harry wasn’t sure he liked the look in the grey eyes that fixed him: Malfoy was scheming, and enjoying it far too much.

“I have to go to Arithmancy now,” the over-achiever informed his lover, “but I didn’t want you barricading yourself in that bloody tower all evening, so I’m going to be late: you’ll pay for that later, I promise. Meet me after supper, usual place, I want to experiment. If you don’t turn up, I _will_ come and find you.”

He kissed possessively once more, and then was gone. Harry stood in the shadows a bit longer, trying to work out if he had just been threatened, and if he had, whether it bothered or excited him. After five minutes, he still couldn’t decide, and so his mind moved back to the immediate problem at hand, his complete lack of defences. Wary now, he headed straight back to safe territory, the tower, and sunk into a sofa to think.

~

Harry had been sat on the largest and most comfortable sofa in the room for a good while (with a look on his face which had meant that the other end stayed clear of any other pupils) when Ron braved the no-man’s land. His best friend threw himself down, discarded the pile of books he’d been to pick up from the library and then offered, “It’s just one day, Mate, it’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Not if the Slytherins have anything to do with it,” the youth sighed and lowered his voice as he explained, “they’ve been causing all my little accidents.”

“But you’re...” Ron trailed off and looked worried.

“Not anymore, apparently,” Harry made a face.

“It could be a good thing,” his companion tried overly brightly, but his smile flattened as Harry gave him a black look. “Aright, being vulnerable to a bunch of Slytherins is not my idea of fun either, but it might mean you’re getting there, y’know, to being able to.”

Ron was wagging his head sideways like he had a tick, as he tried to get his message across without actually saying anything; Harry was tempted to tell his best friend that he already was able to, but that might involve explaining how he had learnt, and then his mind wandered back to Malfoy and so he hastily buried the idea before his thoughts wandered away from him.

“Maybe,” he agreed unhopefully.

“It’s only a week and a bit till the end of term,” Ron tried again, “then we’ll have all holiday to get you back on track, and they’ll regret their jinxes in January. Till then, Hermione and I’ll look after you.”

“Thanks,” Harry returned, but his enthusiasm just wasn’t there: he’d had about all he could take for one term.


	8. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's last protection is gone and Malfoy takes advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

Harry may have been willing to give up and take anything that came at him for the remaining few days of term, but the youth knew from their quick meeting that Malfoy had other ideas. After supper, as ordered, he headed to their normal rendezvous, mainly because his lover never made threats he didn’t back up, and Harry had no wish to find out how he would come and get him. He was tired, and battered, and, despite libidinal compulsion, would rather have just done his homework and gone to bed. The herbal tea was doing its job again and was making him more aware of how sleepy he was, and so Harry opened the door of the Room of Requirement without really thinking what could be behind it. He wasn’t given a chance to find out.

“Advelo!” Malfoy took full advantage of his partner’s vulnerability and before he could see what arrangements Draco had made, Harry’s sight went black.

“Malfoy!” he growled, his fingers still on the door handle, “I’ve had just about enough random spells thrown at me today.”

“Oh, this isn’t random,” a voice spoke, very close to his ear, and Harry couldn’t help himself, as breath played on his lobe, he shivered; Malfoy chuckled, and Harry trembled again as he felt the movement of air where a body slipped round behind him. A palm rubbed down his arm from his elbow to his hand and lifted it off the handle, and he leant back into a light pull which took him off balance into the waiting torso. A quick shift from his holder suggested a kick, and then Harry heard the door slam. He took a deep breath, trying to stifle the butterflies in his stomach as he was once again alone with, and in the power of his enemy.

“What’s the matter, Harry? Do I make you nervous?” his controller murmured, running another touch down his other arm and capturing his hand with dexterous, entwining fingers.

“I’d be mad if you didn’t,” Harry responded, letting his arms be brought up round his chest into an immobilizing embrace; as lips touched his neck and the sensation echoed through his body, the youth felt a burst of adrenaline chase away his fatigue.

His nostrils flared as Harry drew in the strong, musky scent of Malfoy’s aftershave and it, plus the feel of silk against his neck, told him things that his eyes could not: his partner was clean, freshened to entice him, and was certainly not in his uniform. By the sound of his tight breathing and the way he moulded his body to that which he held, it was also obvious to Harry that Draco had been anticipating his arrival for some time.

“Have I been keeping you waiting?” he mocked, and shifted against his holder.

His partner’s hold tightened momentarily, and Harry stopped moving again, slipping in to the role he had been given to see where it would lead. Another kiss rewarded him for his obedience, and then his crossed wrists were taken by one hand while the other sank down his chest.

“Tardiness is a fault I dislike, Harry,” Draco’s fingers ran over his waist band, playing with the belt loops, “and you have made me suffer it twice today.” Any comment, that Harry had, caught in his throat as the touch descended further inside his habitually loose clothing, stroking just above his loins and caused the first tinglings of arousal. “So we will find a way for you to say sorry later.” The youth tipped his head back onto his lover’s shoulder and murmured his pleasure when the fondle finally met his genitals. “For now, we have to get you ready.”

Harry didn’t bother asking for what he was to be prepared, that was part of this game, the reason for the blinding spell, and his expectations leapt on the uncertainty, twisting it into excitement: trust could sometimes be overrated.

“I didn’t think it would take long to get you in the mood,” Malfoy told him, and by the familiar timbres in his voice, Harry knew he was smiling: he said nothing, just increasing his vocalisation as the touch sent shots of delight down his legs.

He was disappointed when the stroking was withdrawn.

Yet, Harry was given no time to contemplate the loss, because it was a sensible removal of distraction; Draco began to move them further into the unknown room and his prisoner found all his concentration was on putting one blind foot in front of the other. He was given no assurances of a clear path ahead as he was guided into the new territory in front of his partner, and it made him hesitant and reliant on the strong arms around him. He was alert and on edge, just how Malfoy wanted him, by the time they had travelled what could have only been a few metres. He tried to resist as a hand took hold of his glasses, the natural vulnerability of having them removed growing despite his current inability to use them anyway.

“I’ll keep them safe for you, Harry,” Draco teased, holding his lover firmly while he did what he liked.

“Break them and I break you, Malfoy,” Harry thought the threat necessary as he lost his precious spectacles to his controller’s pocket.

“Now, now, would I do that?”

The youth did not return the taunt, because, as if Malfoy was providing proof of his untrustworthiness, suddenly, Harry was abandoned completely. Harry nearly fell over as his balance demanded he maintain it himself; as his righted himself, his sight-bereft senses reached out to try and ascertain why there was no warm body close anymore. There was nothing, no touch, no sound, not even the scent of his lover’s aftershave.

“Malfoy?” he asked, his disquiet coming through as childish fears of being left in dark places came back to him: silence: had his partner really gone? “Malfoy?” he tried again, more urgently.

“I’m here,” the Slytherin condescended, amusement in his voice, and Harry finally picked out the sound of silk on silk and skin on stone as his companion walked around him; he wasn’t close enough that his subject could feel him move the air this time, he was separate, observing, and he made Harry’s skin prickle.

“Now, where to start,” Draco mused, still walking as far as Harry could tell.

“Do I displease you?” the youth used the question aggressively, irked by the off-hand disapproval about which his ears were telling him.

“It’s been a long day, Harry,” the voice was back by his ear, and Harry jumped and took a rapid step away from the sound: he fell over. “You’re clothes are a mess, your hair has cobwebs in it, and you need a shave,” Draco cast judgement without bothering to help his disoriented partner up from the hard stone floor.

“Well if your bloody house mates hadn’t spent the day casting juvenile jinxes, I wouldn’t be in this mess,” Harry countered hotly, still more than a little upset about the victimisation.

“Survival of the fittest, Potter,” Malfoy quoted, and then, before his subject had even stood all the way back up, cast, “Exuo robe.”

Harry wriggled rapidly to compensate for the garment, which slid backwards off his shoulders with some force and without waiting for his arms to be in the right position. He’d have complained again, but the rapid removal sent a stab of exhilaration straight to his groin, and he just gasped instead.

“A promising beginning,” his ruler decided, and followed it immediately with, “Exuo shoes, exuo socks.”

Harry landed on his arse again as the spell decided to remove both left and right shoes at the same time and in opposite directions.

“Displaying already, Harry,” Draco teased, but his rumbles said that he appreciated the spread-eagle in which his lover collapsed; Harry looked in the direction of the voice and then eased into a more comfortable, but equally obvious position.

“Refigo button,” was the response to the come-on, and Harry shifted with a deep draw of expectation as his waistband loosened. “Refigo zip,” Malfoy continued breathily: his subject flexed his hips as the fly slowly undid without the help of human hands, but titillated his groin none-the-less. “Exuo trousers,” Draco finally ordered, and his centre of attention arched his back as the clothing slid off his buttocks, and then shivered as his thin-cotton-covered backside hit chilly stone to allow the trousers off his legs.

“You had better stand up, Harry, I don’t want you freezing anything vital.”

Harry took his time climbing to his feet a second time. His arousal was beginning to challenge its confines, and he savoured the sensation of his shorts rubbing lightly against it as he moved. Without sight, his other senses meant that little bit more, and he smiled as he heard the interested breath of his watcher.

“Arms up,” Malfoy ordered, and languidly he was obeyed; this was not the role of dominant stag which often pulsed his loins as a rut was won, but Harry liked it anyway as he felt his lover’s eyes on him.

The wool of the jumper on his face as it was dragged up over his head was a sensation the youth had never really considered before, the movement usually being quick and unimportant, but Draco’s intent had slowed as the game persisted, and Harry centred on the tickling, soothing touch of the natural fibres as he was blinded again by his own clothing. The tightness accentuated the submission he was making, and as the sweater was taken all the way off his body the release damped his concerns of being trapped, but its removal took him one step further to complete vulnerability and his quickening pulse made the experience heady.

“Refigo tie.”

His last Gryffindor marking slid from under his collar, the vibrations, as the silk caught on the minute imperfections of the cotton, sent a pleasant tingling down through his spine, and he lowered his hands back to his sides and closed his blind eyes as he savoured it. Malfoy was smiling again; Harry was sure of it as he heard, “Refigo buttons.” Little tugs to the front of his shirt told him that the fastenings were coming undone, and were echoed by shivers in his torso as the two halves fell apart, allowing the cool air to run over his chest. As the cuff buttons undid as well, Draco finished the removal with, “Exuo shirt,” and in a heart-flickering moment, the youth was stood only in his boxers. Goosebumps raised off his skin, and a stronger tremble ran through his entire body as silence spoke to his imagination and told him that he was being relished. His instinct was proved right when Draco spoke his next spell, and his tone held focused heat in a long, drawn out call of, “Nudo.”

Harry resisted the urge to take hold of the elasticated waistband as it began to move down off his hips. He had done this many times before in front of his lover, they enjoyed undressing and being undressed in view of each other, ‘displaying’ as they had both labelled it. Yet, this was different; there were no hands touching his skin, no contact, just the knowledge of avid attention, and it added a spice Harry had not tried before. He started as the elasticated cotton moved over his prominent arousal, stroking it as though the fabric were alive, and he moaned.

“Breathe deeply, Harry,” Draco offered, and was obeyed, “we don’t want this to be over too quickly.”

“You have the strings,” the youth responded as his shorts slipped down his legs and left him totally without protection.

“Do Gryffindors always state the obvious?” Malfoy offered a usual insult, one of many they had exchanged before; however, Harry was given no chance for a rebuttal, because the experimenter continued, “Actually, I don’t have any strings, but I do have these: Inligo chains.”

The new dimension instated themselves before the alarm had really made it out of Harry’s mind, but as chill metal fixed itself around his wrists, he pulled at it and his disquiet came out of his mouth in a wordless shout. He hadn’t been expecting bonds, although he began to kick himself about not predicting such a move: Malfoy was gunning for him tonight, and their contests very rarely ended in total consent: bondage normally replaced the trust that should have been between regular lovers. Yet his willing submission to the adventure had surprised Harry, and having his ability to consent taken away pissed him off.

“Let me go, Malfoy,” he complained, his bonds chinking as he pulled on them; from their angle of restraint, Harry quickly gauged that they were attached to the floor of the open space which remained around him, one from each side, keeping him where his master wanted him.

“You know me better than that, Potter,” Draco laughed. “Play the game, Harry, I promise you’ll like it.”

Paranoia warred with the heat already in his body, and it was a losing game as his wariness only served to add to the kick of his dilemma. So he was naked and bound, nothing unusual since the beginnings of this relationship, but the shock had disgruntled him, and he huffed for a while. Malfoy was silent as Harry raked back in some equilibrium, but his lover's eyes were on him, Harry could sense Draco all around, the air was thick with his captor, and he settled his pointless struggles with the manacles in fits and starts.

“Are you just planning on looking?” he goaded as a final recovery, and Draco took his bait.

“No,” his partner’s voice spoke right in front of him, and Harry knew that behind his magical blindfold, he was looking into those bright eyes. “First, a shave, I think. Abrado.” He tensed as he felt something resembling a blade against his cheek; he knew it had to be illusion, didn’t it? Yet he remained stock still as the sharp edge pressed against his five o’clock shadow. Slowly, it began to move over his skin, lubricated by its own magic, pulling a little as it removed the light daily growth.

Harry could feel his lover’s breath on his face, and a finger lifted his chin when the magical razor descended over his vulnerable neck. One wrong move and the blade, if it really was a blade, could sever an artery, and he barely allowed himself to draw in air as his sense of touch failed to discern illusion or reality. He was shivering with the tension by the time Malfoy had made his final stroke, and then the controller broke the stress with a wonderfully hot mouth.

Harry melted and tried to reach for his lover as lips covered his and hands took his face, but the chains prevented him; the kiss brought a release which Harry answered by opening his mouth and taking everything that was offered. The dancing of tongues was the limit of what was given, however, as Malfoy held his body away from his partner, even as Harry strained to be close to him. Harry whined when even the press of lips was withdrawn, trying to follow the retreat and coming up against his metal holders.

“I thought those would be necessary,” Malfoy told him, the smile still in his voice. “I want you clean first; cleanliness is a virtue, Harry.”

“I’ve been good enough for you before,” the youth objected, irked again by the criticism.

“Yes, but now I have the opportunity to introduce you to some truly invigorating spells.”

Harry fell silent, the promise in that statement speaking right to his libido.

“Washing is a very intimate and erotic act, Harry,” Draco explained, and Harry could hear foot falls again as he was circled: his erection twitched. “I shall make sure every inch of your body is clean and ready for me. Are _you_ ready for that?”

Even if he thought he was, Harry found out he wasn’t as Malfoy intoned, “Abluo.” As with the razor spell, this one came with tactile effects, and its subject moved against the sudden touch of a warm, waterlogged sponge on his shoulder. The soapy liquid dribbled down over his shoulder-blade at first, and his skin spasmed with the light titillation; then a little more pressure caused the streamlets to grow into rivers, and Harry sighed in bliss as cleansing water ran over his back and between his buttocks. The sponge followed its contents in a long, smooth stroke right down his spine, but the youth growled and raised himself onto his toes to gain a little more descent as the washing stopped at his tailbone. Draco laughed, and Harry sank back onto his heels.

“All in good time, Harry,” his master promised, and the captive had to satisfy himself with circular rubbing that began over his now damp back; it did feel awfully good. The tension of the day had been masked by all the signals that Malfoy had been setting off in his more-or-less willing puppet, but the massaging circles found the knots in his muscles and worked at them vigorously. Harry sighed again. The chains actually became useful to him as he used them to gain a purchase on his environment, leaning a little too far this way and a little that, and using the bindings to keep himself upright. First his back, then his arms, then under his arms over his ribs and up onto his chest: Harry had to force himself to breathe as warm water ran down his torso and trickled over his erection. The fluid cooled as it coated his body, and the youth shivered as it took away his own body heat when it ran round his balls and dripped to the floor.

“Cold?” Malfoy asked, and Harry nodded; he was a little disappointed as the washing stopped, and shuddered some more as the dampness drew more warmth from his skin. But then his lover cast a fire spell, and he felt a rush of instant heat from his left. “Can’t have you turning blue, Harry, that would spoil all my fun.”

Harry decided that flames were a strange and wonderful thing, the youth could hear them crackle and feel their fluctuating influence on his flesh: they gave him even more goosebumps than the cold as they dried the stray drops of water that lay in their realm while the rest of his body in shadows stayed damp.

“Now where were we?” Draco mused. “Those cobwebs next.”

Harry gasped as he missed the next cast, but it resulted in a soaking he wasn’t expecting after the intimacy of the sponge effect. He spluttered and coughed on the part of the deluge his unprepared breathing tried to draw in, and only just managed to stop from falling over again. The shock had a momentary dampening effect on his arousal, but that didn’t last long as his captor returned to the sponge spell; Harry very quickly settled back into the rhythm of the rubbing which gently cleansed his skin.

Washing was something Harry did out of necessity, it had never before been something on which he dwelt for any great length, but as Malfoy took his time over every inch, as he had promised, the youth decided he had been missing a great deal. His flesh woke up a little more with every small stroke, with each stray rivulet of water which teased his nerve endings, and his whole body began to sing.

His leg trembled without his consent as the magical sponge was drawn down the outside of his thigh and calf and finally caressed his foot, and Merlin when it came back up the inside! Slowly, too slowly for its subject, the spell crept upwards between his legs and he groaned as it teased within millimetres of the sensitive skin there. Draco could be a pitiless tormentor sometimes, and Harry’s admission of need became a snarl of disappointment as the touch was drawn away and went instead to the outside of his other leg.

“Patience, Harry,” his controller condescended with a laugh, but his tone was less flippant than earlier in the game, and his captive consoled himself with the hope that it wouldn’t be long now.

He was subjected to a second tease in the same vein as the first, and he couldn’t help the widening of his stance in response to the tiny circling motions close to the back of his balls. When the touch finally pressed into the crevasse of his erogenous zone, Harry did fall over, landing on the stone slabs, his knees spread wide as he was caressed by the tantalisingly rough surface of the sponge. With another groan, he leant forward onto all fours, steadying himself and displaying everything he could to his lover, letting him know how much he was enjoying the sensations. What had been getting gradually harder now ached with the warm, soapy stroking that spread out over his offered genitals and up between his buttocks. The intimate touch was gentle, but insistent, and Harry moved into the sensations, arching his back and panting as it led him towards climax. The pocked surface of the sponge was everywhere, teasing with its lather as it cleaned whatever Draco willed, and Harry wanted more.

“Harder,” he demanded, but when there was no immediate response, changed his tone to one he knew got results and begged, “please harder.”

There was still no vocal answer from his lover, but the youth knew he had been heard when a more dominant pressure started in the caress at his tail bone. Gradually it moved between his cheeks, pausing to play around his entrance for a while and the feeling was exquisite, but somehow, Harry knew that was for later, and he did not let his expectations rise. He concentrated on the throbbing of his dick, and the ache in his testicles that had to be satisfied. The hand in Harry’s mind that controlled the cleansing cupped his balls and massaged with the extra pressure he liked. He let out a moan and rocked his hips. When the hold widened to slide up his shaft, the youth locked his elbows as the first shudders of bliss announced his orgasm, and then he shook with the wonderful, muscle-weakening rapture; behind the blinding, he still saw stars and all his senses focused on the waves of pure pleasure.

Harry came back to earth shivering and spent, and the lock on his elbows threatened to give out. He did not relish the thought of hitting his chin on stone, but his arms had other ideas. Still reeling with bright spots in front of his darkened eyes, Harry had no choice as his body betrayed him. Yet a hand grabbed his shoulder from behind, and Harry was saved from splitting his chin by the strong grasp of his lover. Neither man said anything, but Harry surrendered to the support which drew him out of the collapsing position back onto his haunches, and he relaxed against the silk-covered torso behind him.

The magical sponge had gone, or so Harry thought until he felt it against his stomach; or was it a real sponge this time? The youth couldn’t tell, but in this new contact he could at least feel its director as he lay against excited breathing. He whined as the cleansing began again, covering his over-sensitised genitals with mild ruthlessness, but he had given in to a grip which now held him fast across the chest, and he had to capitulate. The wiping was exquisite torture: Harry alternated between grinding his teeth and gasping as his master satisfied himself of his captive’s cleanliness. He signified completion with a kiss to his partner’s neck, and Harry relaxed once more into his hold.

“Almost clean now, Harry,” Malfoy told him, and stroked the back of his palm against Harry’s freshly shaved cheek.

“What’s left?” the youth asked, drifting in the sexual haze; the response was a shift from his partner, a feel of polished wood against his arse and then he yelped as a far more intimate cleaning spell did its work: it wasn’t that the sensation was unpleasant, in fact it sent shots of desire through Harry’s body as it brushed erogenous zones that the sponge could never have reached, it was just that it took his already sex-soaked brain by surprise. His yelp swiftly became a groan, and he sunk back against Draco’s torso again. He didn’t need to see his lover to know that his reaction had been appreciated; Malfoy held him close, absorbing his trembles and feeding his own fire which came through in his tight embrace and occasional shiver of his own.

“Just a quick dry, and you’ll be ready,” his holder spoke slowly with a rich passion to his tone, and he finished with, “Sicco.”

Warm air rippled over his skin, and Harry sighed as it soothed away the sexual pique and eased his still weak muscles. He was truly a servant to his titillating master when he closed his eyes and allowed hands to run down over his body as Draco explored what he liked. Long fingers wandered over his muscled stomach and down over his thighs, drawing his legs apart, but he did not touch that which he had so recently aroused; Harry rubbed his back against his partner’s silk shirt, and his buttocks against similarly smooth trousers of what he guessed were pyjamas, and settled as a chin hooked over his shoulder. Malfoy was looking down at his spread display and the youth revelled in the admiration he could hear run past his ear.

“Take me if you want me,” he offered, running his hand over a silk-covered thigh at the extent of his bound reach, and for a moment he thought his proposition had been taken: lips touched his neck again, and he moved against the enjoyable nuzzle as fingers continued to play over the sensitive insides of his thighs. However, then teeth dug into his skin, and he started. The dancing hands were withdrawn, and Draco spoke insistently, more to himself, Harry thought, than to him, “Not yet.” A pause followed as his lover reigned in his desire, and Harry stayed still, waiting for the game to restart.

“Time to change location,” Malfoy announced, and control was back in his voice. “Refigo chains.”

Harry's wrists felt light as the metal fell away; he didn’t react immediately: his blindness was more inhibiting than the bonds had been, and he waited for a lead. Draco shifted them both slowly to standing, allowing for the wobbliness of his partner. Harry’s knees threatened to give out almost before they were straight, and his lover caught him under the arms.

“I have to remember Abluus next time I want to win a fight,” Draco laughed. “Can you stand?”

“Will I have to?” the youth returned, suspecting not.

“Very perceptive, Harry,” Malfoy agreed and led him forward.

His hesitant steps were rewarded by more sudden betrayal, as he was turned and pushed backwards; flailing, Harry fell without hope of stopping himself. However, as he braced himself for a painful impact, his naked body hit soft, giving mattress, and with a gasp he sunk into the cushioned springs.

“Bastard,” he charged, trying to calm the pounding of his heart.

“Get all the way on the bed,” Draco ordered guiltlessly, and conflicted, but still excited by the prospect of his lover, Harry obeyed. He wriggled until his legs were completely on the large bed and then remembered the technique his lover had used to excite him: slowly and deliberately, he bent his knee and dropped his leg to one side. “Who says a Gryffindor can’t learn new tricks?” Malfoy taunted, but Harry was satisfied with the heat in his sound, and just smiled wantonly.

“You like my lips, Harry?” Draco drooled, still standing off from his subject.

“Surely a Slytherin doesn’t need telling that?” the youth jibed back.

“Osculor et mordeo,” Malfoy intoned.

Like the insubstantial sponge, Harry immediately felt a mouth pressing against his chest, right in the centre of his breastbone; the lips were just like Draco’s, tacky against his newly dried skin, and when teeth followed their pass, nipping at the awakened flesh, his mind was almost certain that his lover had performed the action directly. He closed his eyes once more and let out a sigh, trailed swiftly by a hiccup of pain-pleasure as the kiss-nip was repeated just to the left of the first one.

“You like that?” Draco enquired lightly, and Harry murmured his consent. “Accumulo.”

The youth arched his back in shocked delight as suddenly there were ten Draco-like mouths scattered over his chest and stomach sending erotic messages to him; he gasped and shifted against the caresses as a libido he had thought spent took notice. He wondered if he was going to survive Malfoy’s spell experiment, but then he heard the increasing spell once more and all thought left his head.

~

His whole world was one enticing sensation after another, and Harry let out another gasp, then panted away the sexual heat that was almost overwhelming his body; he’d lost count of the inventive spells with which Malfoy had been dominating his senses, and only the sweat on his skin and the ache in his muscles told him that he had to have been responding to the titillations for some time. Yet, however expertly applied, and however distracting they were, without his partner near him, the teases were growing gradually more hollow for their victim, and his whole being was demanding resolution.

“Malfoy,” he forced out, but could make no more sense to convey the need that was taking over from everything else.

The response was an increase in the Delingere charm, which was currently licking the dampness and other fluids from his writhing body; Harry tipped his head back and moaned, grabbing the already entangled sheet as he did so. The sound of Draco’s enrapt attention as the youth picked out his breathing was too much; he knew he was wanted, and he had no idea why Malfoy hadn’t taken all he was offering and that frustrated confusion broke the game: Harry had not cast a single spell since the play had begun, it would have been stepping out of the role his lover had created for him, but now he’d had enough, and, coherence not high on his agenda, he went for the first come hither spell he thought of, “Accio Malfoy!”

In a heart beat, there was a body on top of him, and Harry reached for his partner with all the passion that had been built by the foreplay. Draco was tense at first, the experience of being summoned obviously not sitting well, but Harry didn’t care, he ran his hands straight up under his lover’s shirt, tracing lines over his spine, and spread his legs around the hips above him. It was not difficult through the thin silk to feel how aroused Draco had become, and with a few rubs, Harry had broken the momentary barrier of surprise and gained a responsive partner. They kissed and entwined further, and the simple contact removed all restraint that Harry possessed. He wanted his lover and he wanted him soon.

Draco’s embrace grew more intense in tandem with his own as Harry decided that silk, however soft and titillating, was currently just in his way, and he pushed it off his companion’s lower body: Malfoy murmured through the kiss as hands stroked over his buttocks, and the trembling that began in his body told Harry that he wasn’t going to be waiting long for satisfaction. The youth pressed his lover’s buttons and then let him take over once more as a hand ran down his ribs and lifted his lower trunk into an accessible position. Draco had focused long and hard on his charms, which had prepared as well as aroused, and Harry was more than ready for the almost frenzied breach which followed; still, he cried out as the hot, hard cock forced him open, and the delicious burning, aching pleasure drowned everything else.

His lover came to a panting halt fully impaling Harry, and Draco’s shudders sent glorious starts of pressure through him. He accepted the long fingers which slid between his own, gripping needy hands and wanting contact, even as one hand still held the wand that had kept them apart. The wood was hard against Harry’s palm as Draco partially leant on it to maintain his position: it was a strange feeling to have this kind of magical item in contact again, a little daunting, since he had kept away from the tools that had rejected him, and this one he thought by the feel of it, was pointing more or less at his head. An absurd thought of Moody and his lectures on wand safety came to mind, but then Draco moved again and it evaporated in the steam that Harry was sure must be filling his heated body. So long at the mercy of his lover had made his blind world heady, and Harry hung on to Malfoy’s hands for stability as well as desire.

His partner drew out a little way, but the angle was awkward, and he retraced his movement, which hit all the same spots again, and Harry’s midnight vision gained a few stars. He groaned and shifted against Draco, adjusting their tangle to give him better access; it was taken quickly and Harry was left with no uncertainty about their mutual impatience now the union had begun: Malfoy began to withdraw and thrust more definitely: Harry’s already sex-crazed world took a further leap towards blowing his mind completely and he could do nothing more than respond to the ever increasing waves of pleasure that ran through his body.

His fatigued muscles strained, but he held nothing back from his lover as skilled penetration led them both towards another edge. Harry didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t think he was capable of another orgasm (Draco had already forced him over that edge several times), but something was building in his body alongside pleasure as it ascended to rapture. He began to vocalise his rising bliss as with each thrust, adrenaline mixed with the something he couldn’t define and made a cocktail that intoxicated him far more than any alcohol.

At a very low level of his being he drank the heady, erotic potion, and when Draco shuddered and came into him, Harry knew what it was. With a helpless cry, he felt his body arc magic, producing its wonderfully addictive sensations with a potency with which the small compos mentis part of his brain knew he could not cope. Draco’s fingers tightened around his and Harry felt his unspoken spell wrap them in power, very sexual power, waking every nerve ending he possessed. Malfoy struggled against it, his grip desperate and his gasps saying he was somewhere between agony and ecstasy, and then suddenly his grip went limp. A small concern for the body which collapsed on top of him made it into Harry’s brain, but it had little time to form, because a moment later, the magic also turned on its creator and took him beyond conscious limits.

~

A very deep breath brought Harry out of oblivion, and he shifted instinctively as limbs complained. A groan woke him still further, and he remembered his partner failing in the wake of his onslaught. The youth opened his eyes, and blinked as light daggered between his lids; it wasn’t very bright light, in fact it was from the fire he had heard Malfoy create earlier that evening, but it was bright enough to pain his input-starved retinas. Trapped under an unconscious body, Harry shook the bare shoulder which was under his chin: no response except another low, non-sentient groan.

Harry pushed at the dead weight and then moaned with sated disbelief as he discovered that Draco’s collapse had not separated them. He shuddered and dropped the body back onto himself, and took a few more deep breaths as his world spun. Everything ached, he wanted to roll over and curl into a small ball and sleep, and he couldn’t handle much more input, but he knew he had to move his partner before he let exhaustion get the better of him or he was going to regret the awkward position they were in whenever he did manage to wake up again.

Gritting his teeth against he over-sensitised body’s reaction, Harry pushed against his companion again, and tried to relax as much as possible as he performed the withdrawal that Draco couldn’t. He was shivering and seeing spots by the time Malfoy’s body rolled off him onto his back: Harry paused again, staring at the canopy of the familiar four poster, gasping in breath and trying to steady his spinning senses. As the drape-shadows in the burgundy cloth steadied, Harry decided to try and sit up. One shift and he was panting. The youth resisted the urge to panic, he’d been weak before, although not for the same reasons, it would pass; he knew his body and wounds well enough to know that he wasn’t injured, not permanently anyway, despite the aches and strains which reigned in on his senses.

A turn of his head told Harry the same about Malfoy, who was breathing deeply and actually had an enigmatic smile on his sharp features. It really was very tempting to just close his eyes and fall asleep, but Harry shivered again, from cold this time. A castle room in Winter, fire or no fire, was not a place for sleeping in the nude, not uncovered anyway.

A coverlet and blanket had been turned down to the very bottom of the bed, to which Harry discovered he was side on, and gingerly, he reached out his nearest hand. A bit of wriggling, and some puffing later, the afflicted youth managed to grab the protections, and, bit by bit, pulled them up towards him. He covered himself, more or less, and most of him wanted to sleep then, but his conscience reminded him that his partner was only wearing thin silk, and he was only half in that. With a great deal of effort, Harry rolled onto his side, bringing the covers with him and forced an arm over his lover. A bit more wriggling and some swearing finally got the exhaustingly heavy blankets over both of them, and then Harry collapsed where he was. His breathing settled very quickly, and his eyelids drooped soon afterwards, and Harry slipped into a dreamless sleep.


	9. Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends and enemies are revealed when Harry faces his greatest personal threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

Waking up a second time was much less of a struggle, and it had to be a good deal later, because as the body, against which he was propped, moved, Harry felt his already semi-hard arousal respond. Waking up with a hard-on was not unusual for any hot-bloodied male, but it was the youth’s first experience of waking close to another human being, and his murmur said he liked it. The fact that that human being was his arch rival took longer to make it back into Harry’s thoughts, and the cosiness of his position slipped away as he opened his eyes. It had been the movements of his partner that had woken the sleeper, and his gaze was met by arrogant grey-blues, and he was asked, “Did you get lonely, Potter?”

Harry frowned, but not too hard as he detected something in Malfoy’s voice which he guessed was as near to embarrassment as his companion would ever get: he felt no such emotion, and countered boldly, “You’d have liked the position we were in even less.”

Harry thought he detected relief in Draco’s face as he moved his arm and rolled away and stifled the small feeling of loss that accompanied his movement; he did take the covers with him, and his companion hastily grabbed his half-descended pyjamas and pulled them up. Malfoy also groaned heavily as he sat up, so Harry, having felt his muscles pull with the small movement he’d already made, decided not to try that one for a while.

“Ever passed out before, Malfoy?” Harry teased, grinning at the black look which came his way.

“I’ve never been flooded with magic before,” he was told, and he wasn’t sure if he was being praised or condemned, but then from the look on his face, neither was Draco.

Harry closed his eyes and relived that moment, running back over it with a clearer mind, and something occurred to him. “I think it was the wand,” he proposed.

He was given another withering look, and Malfoy pointed out, “You can’t use them: basic definition of Freehand.”

“I know,” Harry returned, and sat up as he began to take more interest in the conversation; that halted what he was going to say for a few moments as he dealt with the many and varied aches that his body announced to him. However, taking a deep breath and leaning on the post nearest him, continued, “but it was in your hand when we started.”

“Yes, as I remember, I was still using it when you _summoned_ me,” Draco growled, but Harry grinned again, he was rather proud of that success; Malfoy’s look just became one of consternation, and he asked, “So what?”

“I didn’t use your wand, but I think touching it lit a flame in me.”

“I’d been lighting your flames all evening, Potter, what makes you think the wand did anything?” Draco argued, running his hands through his long hair.

“I felt it,” Harry concluded, as he analysed the feelings that had been in his body, “I felt everything recent you’d been doing with that wand, that’s what the spell was I cast, it was everything we’d been doing all in one mess.”

The look that he received this time was one of astonishment, but it held no rejection of his statement; Harry shrugged and smiled as he saw thoughts begin to fire behind Malfoy’s eyes.

“That’s not in the books,” Draco observed, and surprised his partner with his authority on the matter.

“Freehands tend to stay away from wands,” Harry surmised from his own experience and decided to be honest as he confessed, “If the others were anything like me, wands made them feel uncomfortable.”

“It is perfectly possible to discover the last spell cast by any wand,” Malfoy looked excited as he slipped into supposition mode; Harry just nodded at the statement of the obvious, not sure what this little revelation meant to him yet, and waited for other thoughts to make themselves known. “And there are many and varied effects recorded of interacting wands.” The listener looked away as his mind went back to the contest with Voldemort during the Triwizard tournament and the chill of it ran up his spine. “You are a wand,” Draco continued, his zeal for the ideas making him ignorant of Harry’s discomfort, “so of course there are numerous possibilities for you to interact with other wands. Merlin, Potter, you’ve opened up a whole new branch of Freehand Magic.”

“Oh, and how would I explain how I found out?” Harry snarked, and tried to vent any bad feelings before they grew.

“We need to experiment with this some more,” Malfoy decided animatedly, and reached for the wand that lay abandoned on the mattress, and his companion snapped.

“Not now, enough experimenting;” Harry stood up and stalked away from the bed, in his haste nearly tripping over the covers he dragged with him.

Draco looked like a little boy who’d just had his favourite toy taken away when Harry turned to glare at him for good measure; it was an unguarded look which quickly disappeared as Malfoy seemed to remember that he didn’t take orders, well most of the time, from an upstart Gryffindor, and his stare hardened to a ‘make me’ challenge as he raised his casting arm.

“Expelliarmus,” Harry intoned and couldn’t help the smile as the magic ran out of his body.

The result wasn’t quite so satisfying, because his opponent managed to hold on to his wand and duck under the attack. However, Harry did not have to defend himself any further, because Malfoy had seen something else behind him and his interest in experiments evaporated.

“Merlin, it’s nearly six am!” Draco exclaimed and waved at a clock on the mantelpiece.

His partner’s alarm daggered through Harry as every implication of spending all night away from the dorm hit him at once. He quickly started to grab at his garments which were strewn around the area in front of the fireplace, and Malfoy dived behind the bed to pick up a neatly folded pile of his own clothes. The youth dwelt on the unhappy thought of having to explain himself to Ron, who would most definitely have noticed his absence, and discovered a nasty taste in his mouth as he started to think of lies to cover up the extended rendezvous. He scrabbled on some of his clothing, enough to be decent for the dash back to the tower, but just gathered up his tie and socks and stuffed them into a pocket and threw his robe over his arm. He was pulling on his shoes when a small object came flying towards him and battle hardened instincts caught it. He looked down at his catch, and growled; his glasses were bent and one lens was smashed.

“They were in my pocket when you got insistent,” Malfoy defended the accusatory look he was given and then dashed for the door. “Be seeing you.”

The urgency of getting back to the tower before everyone got up took over from the problem of his glasses as Draco let the outside world back in by opening the door; Harry shoved the spectacles into his pocket for fixing later, and followed his fellow pupil’s path. Malfoy was nowhere in sight by the time the youth reached the corridor, and, wishing he had his invisibility cloak or even the Marauder’s map, Harry ran for home.

~

The dorm was quiet when Harry snuck back in, and dived behind his curtains. He pulled off his day garments and scrabbled into his pyjamas just in time to hear a sleepy enquiry from behind the curtains, “Harry, that you, Mate?”

Doing up his final button with one hand, Harry pulled back the curtain with the other and was greeted by Ron, standing there, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Morning, Ron,” he greeted, trying to smile past the fast pace of his heart.

“Where’ve you been all night?” his friend whispered urgently, looking round at the mess of clothing on the bed, and the fact that he had been worried catching up with his dozy brain.

“Practising: got carried away and knocked myself out for the night,” Harry settled for bits of the truth.

“You locked the door,” Ron frowned and left his companion to suppose he meant the door to the Room of Requirements.

“Sorry, but I can’t have anyone walking in on me, too risky,” Harry apologised, feeling like a traitor as he excluded his best friend from that part of his life.

“Well, you should go and see Pomfrey then,” the Weasley temper had threatened, but seemed satisfied by the explanation, and he sat down next to Harry, yawning again.

“I’m fine,” Harry countered, and played right into one of Ron’s concerns for him as he added, “in fact I got a really good night’s sleep.”

That worked, and brightened his best friend’s features.

“I covered for you,” Ron told him in camaraderie, “closed the curtains and said you’d gone to bed early with a headache.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry returned genuinely, really glad he had befriended a Weasley.

~

Hermione gave Harry an earful for worrying both her and Ron, but then she fixed his glasses for him and dragged him to breakfast with the mantra that if he wasn’t going to see Madame Pomfrey about passing out then he could at least make sure he ate enough to make certain he didn’t do it again. Harry didn’t say much, he remained guiltily silent and let his friends fuss, and that is what he did for the next few days: he put up with the occasional jinx, letting Ron or Hermione crusade after the culprit like any good squib; he kissed Malfoy in dark corners, but avoided any more experiments; he dreamed of Mademoiselle Yneme and Malfoy in equal erotic measure; he generally let life pass him by and looked forward to the holidays, which he was going to be spending with the Weasley’s.

Life, however, had other ideas about him, and it was taking its toll by the end of the week. Jinxes, dark corners and dreams had all added up to a very dozy Harry by the time Friday morning came around. The tea hadn’t helped, and he had tried to keep a thought in his head long enough to talk to Mademoiselle Yneme about the potency of the new pouch she had given him two days ago. However, like most other things, that had drifted out of reach of the youth by the time he actually walked into the classroom at the end of the morning, and, giving his teacher a confused smile that was all that was left of his thoughts, he went to sit down.

Ron and Hermione were shadowing him like a pair of bodyguards, very worried bodyguards if their faces were anything to go by, but Harry really couldn’t have cared less. He was in a warm, unconcerned place where nothing actually mattered and his thoughts just meandered along not really forming into much except maybe the odd wet-dream. In fact that is exactly where his thoughts went when his nose picked up the flowery scent of his tutor’s perfume and tumbled him right back to the practice session through which he had slept.

The lesson began without the dopey young wizard, he didn’t even bother to get out his quill, he just stared at the desk, a smile gracing his features as he thought about the moment in his dream when the lovely Frenchwoman had stepped up to him. He knew he was going to get an erection as soon as his mind focused on the press of finger on his mouth and it sent shots of pleasure out through his body. He leant over the desk shrouding himself in his robe and let the daydream continue.

His hands ran over her soft thighs once more, stroking and collecting material until the contact was free of cloth; then followed the glorious exploration of excited dampness, and Harry bit his lip as his mind created the feelings of the touch he had never experienced. The thought was totally real to the young man as he felt his finger tips part the soft, protective layers between him and the rising heat in his partner, and his body pulsed anew.

Harry clamped his teeth onto his lip as the eroticism of that dream-moment threatened to make it out of his mouth, and as his mind told him that a body pushed against him and murmured his name, he bit down, hard. This is when he always woke, with the sound of helpless desire in his ears and a throbbing cock. Yet his dreamy state held on to him this time, and he revelled in the feeling of woman clinging to him as he woke her centre. Genevieve was speaking in French right against his ear, moaning her wont for his touch, and he listened to her sound, even as he did not understand her words, fascinated and aroused by the depth in her tone. It all felt so true, her shivering, her nails which dug into his shoulders, her keening melody, and Harry sunk into the thought like it were a memory.

Aroused, excited, Harry listened to the sounds again, and something inside stirred, a sharp warning broke his concentration, a shot of anxiety that killed his hard-on in a heart beat, but, confused, the youth did not break out of his daydream. Instead, it dragged him on, his mind determined to show him something.

As he had stroked his mistress, the young wizard had barely noticed the change in her sound, but as he relived what he knew for certain was now real memory, he viewed the experience only half in his body, and he recognised the effects of the change as they happened. The powerful arousal had begun to die, stifled by something in his siren’s song, but he had willingly relaxed as her beautiful music had worked on his mind and his body. Listening once more, Harry felt his muscles begin to relax, but this time he resisted the keen, which, as he felt the memory of himself pass out, realised was not in his ears, but in his mind. The youth dug his nails into the desk as his memory went dark.

The strands of recollection took a moment to return, but as his Occlumency-trained mind searched for the truth of what had happened, it kept him firmly inside himself, even though part of him, the vulnerable, anxious side did not want to know what his night time dreams had failed to show him. His breath tight in his chest and blood running down his chin from a new lip wound, Harry broke through barriers that had been placed in his memory.

~

He came round slowly, confused by the left-over sex and something heavy which still touched parts of his drifting thoughts. Movement was difficult, at first because he could not focus enough to do so, but as the sensual mist dispersed, Harry discovered, to his alarm, that his inactivity was due to the fact that he was tied down at full stretch to posts on the floor of his favourite classroom. He was also naked. He pulled at the bonds and glanced wildly around the chamber which he barely recognised.

The desks had all been pushed backwards, and he was lying in the space that had been made, surrounded by candles, some on the ground, some floating as they doused everything in a pinkish light. Movement towards his feet brought Harry’s growing panic around to look at another part of his strange, but worryingly familiar surroundings; Genevieve was lighting her last few candles and guiding some at the tip of her wand into position. She no longer looked anything like the aristocratically alluring teacher he had known. Mademoiselle Yneme was naked as well, or that is what her pupil thought until something against her tanned skin glistened in the light and he made out a robe, as faint as a spider’s web, which was clearly not designed for the prudish. In another situation, the sight of womanly body could have been an easy distraction, but Harry’s panic had taken over completely from anxiety, and the youth yelled for help as the woman who turned to him looked anything but vulnerable.

Harry’s scream hit cloth that had been tied tight across and between his lips, and his fear took him back to the Malfoy persecutions; all coherent thought disappeared, and he continued to scream, pulling at the four posts. The response from his captor was to descend upon him, and the youth struggled harder as smooth thighs closed round his hips and Yneme leant down towards him. Hands took each side of his head; he twisted to get away, but they held him still and an expression of concern came into focus and then out again as a cheek was laid against his.

“Shh, Young One,” the familiar, warm French lilt told him as if he was simply upset about a failed exercise. “I mean you no harm, shh.”

Harry did not want to shh; this woman clearly did mean him harm, but his struggle was taken away from him by a wave of disorientation. He choked on the gag as his scream stopped mid-cry and the world went away again. The darkness lasted only a few seconds, because the youth was still shivering with left-over hysteria and his heartbeat had not slowed completely when his eyes focused again on the lovely face.

Yneme was knelt back now, but one hand stroked his hair while the other cupped his cheek, and she was cooing to him. Yet there was something else about her, something new he had not seen before inside the outward concern she was showing, and as he saw it, it stopped Harry from repeating his efforts to escape: the youth knew madness when he saw it, he had been faced with the same in Voldemort. Yet this time he did not know how to face it, so he just looked into it and trembled.

“Do not fret, Mon Petit,” the mademoiselle soothed without soothing, “You and I are good together; I guide you well when you are mine.”

That disclosure produced another bout of panic: the books had instilled Harry with a healthy phobia of being bound. Yneme’s answer was harsher than the unfounded disorientation, she snarled, “Non!” and then Harry felt a pain like nothing he’d ever encountered before. His skull began to ache and daggers of burning threaded into his brain. His pulls at the ropes stopped, and his muffled cry became one of hurt as the attack brought tears to his eyes. He went weak as it touched his mind again, and he could not sustain his resistance.

As soon as his fight lessened, the assault stopped as quickly as it had begun, but the residual pain took longer to disperse, and his captor soothed his responses with more coos and gentle stroking of his hair as they spiralled downwards from the agonising peak. Harry blinked the water out of his vision and stared up at his companion, shocked and frightened by the power she had used, and confused by the warm, concerned look on her features.

“Do not fight, Mon Petit,” she calmed, “I do not wish to make hurt. My mind is strong, non?” The madness was back in her manner as a smile graced her delicate features. “I am good for you, I make your mind strong as well, and you give me more magic.”

Harry shook his head, but froze as he saw the ghost of the momentary anger which had caused him such pain, and the smile remained as she continued, “It is so. My skills mostly need touch; I am very strong close to things. My magic otherwise is like any witch, and you are my answer. Together, we make the world notice.

Yneme, she think me mad like my father; they say my powers bend my thoughts, but they do not understand. She fears me, say I need to be locked away, but I beat her on the journey and she is the one they lock up. Then I find the letter from Dumbledore asking my help for you; he did not know Genevieve by face, and I think to come in her place.”

The youth shuddered as fate conspired against him once more and he wondered if his luck had finally run out. In some ways, this fake Genevieve was more terrifying than Voldemort; he had threatened death, she promised servitude to madness, and he did not know what to do.

“No fear, Young One,” his mistress looked hurt as her caress gave her knowledge, “I am sorry for this. I had not thought to be here so long for you, but your mind would not let me in. My tea opens you, but not enough, and I must be able to make spells on you, so we are here.”

Threat of pain or not, Harry knew his one protection was in danger, and he began to fight. The mademoiselle seemed to have contained her anger, and his terror was met with kind touches and soft words, but they just made the horror of his helplessness even worse. He tore away from the soothing palms and strained against his bonds, and his fear challenged the creeping influence that remained in his head. Another jet of disorienting pain signalled the end of his captor’s patience, and this time Harry nearly passed out.

Yneme, or whoever she was, was glaring at him when he came out of the swoon, and there was no more stroking softness.

“You will learn.”

The captive had no energy left to fight, and he lay still, trying to gather some more stamina as his mistress held out her hand and something flew off the teacher’s desk into her open palm; it was her wand, and Harry tensed as her beautiful face was leant up to the sky and she whispered a spell. Yet this magic was not aimed at him; his skin prickled at the power that was let loose, but nothing more: the candles flickered and then their light was joined by a ring of flame a few feet outside the poles. Harry gagged on his silencer as the visible suggested an enclosing invisible something and the atmosphere within gained an oppression.

“Now we begin,” he was told, and his holder’s unusual skills brought her a small pot from outside the circle; she smiled at him again, an absurdly loving gesture, and held out the small vessel, which Harry recognised as the salve she had used on his lip, as she explained, “We use old magic to open you to spells, Mon Petit. This excites you like before and you like what you see?”

Harry didn’t want to believe the sexual inferences suggested in the way the woman wiggled her shoulders and displayed herself to him; this was not like the games he played with Draco, no matter how few safety rules they had, he was always given opportunities for escape, that was the point, but there were none here, and all attraction for his teacher had died the moment her façade had come down. Mademoiselle Yneme did not like the horrified reaction, she pouted and chastised, “I make myself beautiful for you! We become lovers, you give yourself to me.”

The youth shook his head, but Genevieve ignored his rejection and dipped the fingers of one hand into the pot. Harry watched in dread as, once the jar was discarded, the woman carefully spread the thick balm over her palms with long, deliberate rubbing motions and she began to murmur under her breath. Her words were spell-Latin, complex, and quickly unintelligible to her victim. The flames flared, leaning impossibly towards their mistress, warming the circle, and once her palms were glistening, the witch held them out to the dancing element. Harry didn’t know this magic, it was not something taught in school, for reasons that were terrifyingly obvious to him; he made one last attempt to free himself, closing his eyes and desperately reaching for his own basic magic.

He could still hear the measured chant of Yneme’s charm, it permeated everything, and Harry struggled to find concentration; just one hand and he would be free. The youth focused on the feel of rope around his right wrist, sensing where it caught against his skin, rough and sore, trying to see the fibres in his mind. Yet he was given no more time to visualise what he wanted, as palms touched his chest: Harry gasped, his heart beat rising, as heat, both mental and physical, flowed swiftly and remorselessly into his body. The magic gave him no choice about arousal, attraction or not, sexual mists fogged his brain and with a groan for the baseless act, Harry felt himself become painfully hard. Genevieve began to rub the fire-enriched potion into his skin, and the magic moved beyond mere arousal; the youth whined and tried to move away, swamped by the potent input: delirium and fever threatened. Wanting the world to go away, Harry let them in.

His senses went hazy as Harry protected himself from the burning which ran through his veins, but the chant would not leave him alone. It wound its way through his mind, unhindered by his retreating consciousness, free to search out whatever protections he possessed. The world drifted almost out of reach, as the dominating force took control, surrounding him in a softness which belied its intent.

Sometimes it ran slowly over his thoughts, teasing them, stroking them, beguiling the source of his mental protection from them; at other moments it demanded, coursing swiftly about him, causing stabs of pain with each push, smothering him with its all-encompassing heat. Harry didn’t try to fight it, he just wanted it to finish, and he let its hold grow tighter and harder. Soon there were no moments of soft beguile, only ever more demands, and the youth struggled to please his harsh controller, to find the key that would make it stop. All his hours of Occlumency training fell against the old magic; logical thought died in the face of the constricting, insistent chant. It was all around him, heating his brain, forcing him on through his mind, and when it found the barrier, Harry screamed. His body reared in tandem with his mind, and his mistress’ chant grew to crescendo, shattering the protection.

~

Harry gasped and grabbed the table as his mind showed him the assault; his skills worked what they had been unable to do that night and in his rejection, Ron’s books went flying off the table, hitting Dean, who was sat in front. The dark youth complained, and spun in his seat, but Harry wasn’t listening, he was still trapped in his mind, where he had collapsed, exhausted by the manipulating spell.

“Harry, what’s the matter?” Ron asked next to his ear; he couldn’t say, couldn’t believe what his thoughts had told him, but his magic did, and items on desks and on persons began to shudder in situ as his horror came out.

“Harry, Young One?” the concerned voice of his teacher was the last thing he wanted to here, and Harry shifted his chair backwards as Mademoiselle Yneme hurried over to him; her hand was swift though, and took his arm, and he felt her mind on his. Frozen by a look, he knew she saw beyond his dampening eyes as the rest of the memory played out for them both.

She had climbed off him, her breaths coming in little gasps of delight from her climax, and her smile had shown her pleasure; Harry had just looked at her then as he did now, disoriented and disgusted and unable to fight. When she had taken her wand, he had expected servitude, but what he was given was the Obliviate charm.

Genevieve looked at him with the same kind sympathy to which her pupil had become accustomed; yet now it held no succour, and the books danced harder as Yneme drew her wand.

“Everybody outside, now!” she ordered, and bodies began to move.

“What is it, Mademoiselle?” Hermione asked urgently.

“No time, out now,” the woman returned, her attention shifting for a moment.

Harry forced more movement out of his revulsion-locked body, pushing his chair back again, Yneme’s reaction was a few muttered words and a wave of her wand. The influence of the woman’s skills had been nothing compared with the overwhelming control which daggered into his brain, and the youth managed a yelp before it locked his whole body away from him; the dancing objects stopped dead. Most people were heading towards the door as instructed, but someone noticed.

“Everyone stay where you are,” a strong, authoritative voice cut above the scrabbling bodies, and Harry had never been so glad to hear the superior Malfoy tones.

He may not have been universally liked, but the Prince of Slytherin was never ignored, and all movement stopped and attention turned to him. Yneme kept her hand clamped on Harry’s wrist, but she turned to her disobedient pupil and chastised, “How dare you?! I give you orders for your own safety, leave.”

“The only person in danger is Potter,” Draco retorted. “You’re trying to bind him.”

“I use a simple suppression,” Yneme countered hotly, “to make time.”

“Time for what?” Ron asked, and Harry was glad to hear his suspicions aroused.

“Those were the first words of Fredderick Holdwick’s spell to bind a Freehand,” Malfoy told anyone who would listen.

“Impudent child!” the mademoiselle charged, and Harry could not resist the urge to stand up as he was pulled away from his friends to the front of the room; the woman rounded on Draco, who quickly followed them. “Do not vex me.”

The blond youth took one step too far, and Harry collapsed at his controller’s feet as she let him go and grabbed for his lover. Malfoy’s scream tore at Harry’s soul, and he knew the kind of pain he was feeling, but he could barely breathe, let alone help. Draco hit the floor close to him, and with dismay, Harry saw his eyes roll in his head. As she showed her hand, other pupils moved, drawing their wands, but Yneme, it seemed, was never unprepared. A whispered word, and isolation closed in on Harry as the fire circle sprung up around the front of the room. A stupefy hex from Hermione bounced off the invisible barrier which the flames marked, and his captor laughed. Hermione glared at her for a moment, but then she called, “Seamus, get help, everyone else, blast curses, she can’t hold out forever.”

“I do not need forever,” Genevive lauded at her opponents outside, and Harry heard the madness in her tone before he felt the oppression close tighter around him.

“Fight her, Harry,” Ron called as a hail of curses reigned uselessly onto the wall.

The youth was still looking at his fallen lover, unable to turn away from the pale features and crumpled body, and he grabbed on to the anger that caused; with a great effort, Harry closed his eyes and sought out his defences: he would not be bound by this madness. The young man refused to hear the words of the curse that threatened his freedom, and he grappled with the influence which had already pushed its way into his mind.

It was difficult to think with the mixture of his opponent’s tea and her spells in his system, but as his image had distracted his dreams of Mademoiselle Yneme, so too the thought of Malfoy’s sharp features fought the encroaching subjugation. He threw up every defence his Occlumency training could remember, diverting, blocking and hindering the creeping spell. A little more movement came back to him as he leant forward and steadied himself, gasping with the effort that the small victory had taken, and he refused the insisting will that wanted him to open his eyes.

Yneme was not to be so easily beaten; Harry cried out as he was grasped by the hair and pulled up against the woman’s body. Her presence powered back into him on top of the heavy spell, and he desperately battled the attack on two fronts. The telepath was more devious than the guided magic; her assault brought back the heady memories of the fire charm, and all the emotion which had accompanied them. Harry retreated, unable to face the calculated manipulation which had stripped him of all dignity; he suffered loss of movement once more, and Genevive smiled down at the face which looked helplessly up at her. Her hold relaxed somewhat as her domination grew, but Harry could not curl up into the ball in which he wanted to be; her hazel gaze held him fast, and showed him all the madness that lay there.

“Finite Incantatum!” the call from his lover came to his rescue, and Harry felt the binding spell evaporate.

His thoughts opened up, and desperation made a good weapon, as Harry reached for his oppressor in both body and mind. A pragmatic woman, Yneme let him go, and he broke away from her, reeling with the freedom, his thoughts scattered and in shock. He crawled as far out of reach as the flaming barrier would let him, and tried to gather his wits. It was then he heard Malfoy grunt. Harry turned his head to see the still crumpled Draco under attack from an enraged madwoman. Harry didn’t know what hex had been cast, but from the pain on his lover’s features, and the way he was trembling violently, it had to have been agonising. Yneme was stood over him glowering, her wand aimed at his head. The youth didn’t really think about what he was doing, he felt his magic answer his instincts, he raised his hand and incanted, “Expelliarmus!”

He wasn’t that accurate, but his target was distracted enough to interrupt the curse she had held on Draco and gave him an opportunity to fight back.

“Laedo!” Draco retaliated with far more ruthlessness than his lover, but Harry enjoyed the thud as their enemy was sent flying backwards by the impact and hit her own barrier.

His satisfaction lasted only a moment, as he saw Draco begin to fail with the effort of the cast, and Yneme took brutal advantage.

“Crucio!” she intoned to Harry’s disbelief.

Malfoy screamed again, his sound tired and helpless, and he contorted under the attack. The witch got to her feet, her eyes blazing her retribution as she stalked back over to her latest victim. Harry’s rage did not build, it just appeared, and he let it out in a cry of fury before he pushed himself up off the floor and flew at his enemy. All fatigue, all fear dropped away as he defended his partner, and faced the evil which had hurt them both. The slender woman had no physical defence when he barrelled into her, and she hit the invisible wall with a gasp of surprise as he used his superior strength to pin her there. Her mind tried to push into his, but Harry’s wrath ignored the unimportant influence, as, deliberately, he took hold of her wand hand, covering the smaller digits in his own and touching the tool itself: she would know what she had done.

The Freehand felt the ghost of the terrible spells as he stared into suddenly frightened eyes, but his revenge was unstoppable by any qualms that Genevieve’s terror could insight. She had humiliated and manipulated and hurt and the witch was going to pay. His rage, an arousal of different proportions to that which had discovered his skill, took hold of the instructions, and called to the rushing energy which awaited his command. His victim’s mouth opened in horror as her scheming powers told her what was about to happen, and then she screamed.

Harry stood statuesque as the mad creature writhed in his grasp; his magic ran free, unchecked by scruples, and he watched every twist and every shudder with relish. He could not name the spells that ran through him, he did not need to, the Freehand just channelled the power, innocent of its intent, a conduit for repayment in kind.

The woman’s cries grew weaker quickly, devastated by the onslaught, but the vengeance did not stop. Harry felt the same overload as he had experienced in the early days of power pushing, and he knew that he could not halt the flow, nor did he want to. The horror of the teenager who had been subjected to the fire magic was in control, not even Malfoy mattered now, as he cleansed his degradation with the equal subjugation he owned. His fury locked him into the battle, and it could have only one end.

Yneme screamed; Harry punished: that was the way it was, until a hand touched his shoulder. Startled by the distraction, the youth turned from his still writhing victim, and looked up into the wise old face of his mentor.

“Enough, Harry,” the wizard told him plainly, and the lock was undone.

Harry looked back to his victim and saw the pain he was causing for what it was; in horror of his actions, he let go of the wand and its owner, and swift hands pulled him away. Professor McGonagall took hold of him, wrapping him in her robes as Dumbledore and Snape moved to Yneme and Malfoy respectively; his head of house held him tight, tension in her grasp, but he didn’t fight her, he didn’t want to fight anymore, he was tired, and shocked and disoriented. One thing kept him conscious, and that was the huddled form that his subject had become.

“Mademoiselle?” Dumbledore asked, reaching slowly out to the shivering woman.

Hazel eyes looked up at the headmaster and a trembling hand held out the weapon with which she had inflicted her pain, holding it like she wished to be rid of it forever; Dumbledore took the offering, and then Harry’s willpower decided he had seen enough. His body felt light, his knees went weak, and then the Freehand passed out.


	10. After the Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy and Harry must come to real terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

Madame Pomfrey was a truly wonderful carer: she was never intrusive on her charge’s rest, but she was always there when he needed her. The tea and the rigors of the attack had left Harry exhausted, and once he had come round, the rest of the day was lost to sleep, no mind for anything else; the night was more difficult. There were screens up around his bed and his nurse tended discomforts left over from Yneme’s attentions: physical sickness due to the withdrawal of some of the more exotic ingredients the woman had been gradually adding to the innocent tea mix, and also the upsets in his mind. The illness of body and the illness of another’s mind preyed on his need to rest, but as his body purged itself, so too did his mind.

Harry was used to old battles visiting his dreams from time to time, and now there were two faces, one wizened and ugly, the other beguiling beautiful, to whom the youth knew he had to become accustomed. His nightmares faced the horrors again, waking him with groans and helpless terror, but Madame Pomfrey was always there. The net effect of his mind’s wanderings was to file the new source of evil away with the old, safely out of reach of everyday things. By morning, the screens were gone, the sickness had passed and so too the light had chased away the tears of the night, unmentioned by the woman who had nursed him through it. The bright winter sun was shining through the windows of the infirmary, right onto his bed, and Harry had lain still, drifting in the peace of the new day.

Malfoy was in the next bed, Harry had opened his eyes long enough to snatch a glance of his partner and satisfy himself that the pale face turned his way on the pillows looked alright; he was almost sure Draco had done the same, but they had not exchanged any conversation. Instead, Harry had been content dozing in the company of his lover, and had assumed the feeling was reciprocated, since both youths ignored each other along with the rest of the world in the quiet of the restful room until the outside world disturbed them.

The disturbance was a welcome one, as along with a bustling nurse came smells of bacon and fresh toast, and their stomachs apparently ruled both patients, because they rolled over and took notice at the same time.

“Good morning, Boys,” Madame Pomfrey greeted, as if she had not seen them both all night.

They both mumbled some kind of sleepy hello, and Harry’s stomach gurgled loudly as he laid eyes on two laden trays sat on a trolley. Due to several bouts of vomiting, his belly was empty, and his nurse smiled at his sheepish reaction to the clearly audible rumble.

“Ready for breakfast, I hear, Harry,” the woman cajoled, and then turned to her other patient and asked, “You as well, I trust, Draco.”

“Yes, thank you, Madame Pomfrey,” Malfoy showed he was waking up faster than his companion, as he propped up his own pillows and smiled charmingly.

Harry took more time to sort himself out: his head was still fuzzy around the edges after the battering from Genevive, and although he was feeling relatively strong, coupled with his doziness, the woolly skull made his movements a little laboured. Feeling foolish when he knocked his own pillow out of the bed, he accepted help from his nurse, but she didn’t even comment as she got him into a comfortable sitting position and gave him his glasses. Soon he’d forgotten his abashment as well, because he was faced with a tray of steaming breakfast. Harry was salivating madly as all the smells accosted him, but he looked to Madame Pomfrey for leave; she was stood between the two beds, smiling as both pupils waited for permission.

“Good appetites are what I like to see,” the woman commented, but didn’t then give the go ahead that Harry was expecting, instead she told them, “but would you mind company while you eat?”

The youth glanced at his fellow patient, who duly looked back. He could guess who would be the company: Ron and Hermione had probably been ordered back to their dorms for the night, but he knew his friends and they’d have been back as soon as they were allowed; Dumbledore was another fair bet, and Harry hoped Professor McGonagall would be there as well, he wanted to thank her for the embrace, the memory of which had comforted his nightmares; Snape was not someone Harry fancied seeing at breakfast, but the youth had seen him tend Draco after the attack, and he fancied that the man would not be absent; he wasn’t sure if any Slytherins would be outside as well. Malfoy’s gaze held a similar mixture of educated guessing, and no further conference was needed. The pair shook their heads, and Madame Pomfrey nodded at them.

“Alright then, dig in and I’ll put the kettle on for everyone else.”

Harry was rather proud of his deductive capabilities as he discovered he had guessed the visitors correctly to the last member, and had been right to be doubtful about any of Draco’s house mates being present. Ron and Hermione came dashing in first, and only belatedly seemed to remember that they weren’t eleven anymore. Ron stopped himself from diving onto the bed, and sat down on the edge instead, and Hermione stopped short of both beds and greeted, “Harry, Draco, how are you feeling?”

Malfoy was not the only one to look a little stunned that he hadn’t been totally ignored by the Gryffindors, Ron’s attention went from the Slytherin to the Head Girl and back again. Draco recovered himself quickly, and returned with the same kind of politeness, “I am much better, thank you, Hermione,” and then diverted smoothly, looking at Harry, “but then I was not Mademoiselle Yneme’s true target.”

“You look rough, Mate,” Ron supplied some honest observation while stealing a slice of Harry’s toast.

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry made a face, but that said more about the strangely upbeat mood he was in than his best friend’s comment. “I’m okay, thanks, Hermione.”

“With another day’s bed rest,” Madame Pomfrey put in her opinion as she followed in the group of three other staff members carrying a tray of steaming cups of tea and racks of toast that had been prepared in the seconds she had been gone. “That goes for you as well, Draco.”

“We are fortunate that such little time is required for your recovery,” Professor Dumbledore drew everyone’s attention as he halted the staff representation at the ends of the bed; his face was grave, and lined with an emotion that Harry recognised from the dreadful evening of Sirius’ death, regret. “I can only apologise to you Harry, that in my haste to acquire you a teacher, I did not examine the mademoiselle’s credentials with greater diligence.”

“But she isn’t Genevive Yneme,” alarm daggered through the young man as he remembered facts only he could know, “she was her patient, she took her place.”

The headmaster raised his hand and countered the disquiet with, “We know, thank you, Harry. The young woman confessed all to us. Her name is Aleyn de la Folle, and the real Mademoiselle Yneme has been released from the French hospital in which she was being kept, and is on her way here to collect Aleyn.”

“Is Aleyn alright?” Harry asked as he thought guiltily about the retribution he had taken.

Dumbledore blinked at the question he clearly hadn’t expected, but it was Professor McGonagall who voiced the general surprise as she came down the side of the bed and observed, “Sometimes, Harry, your generosity of spirit astounds me.”

“Did I hurt her?” Harry tried to make it plain that this had nothing to do with generosity.

“No more than was necessary,” Snape replied candidly as he took up a similar position to the other head of house but at Draco’s bedside; he received dark looks from the Gryffindors for that, but continued with something near disgruntled disdain, “Mademoiselle de la Folle wanted to tell us everything, in great detail, once you had finished with her, and she described to us what you did; that technique with the wand was quite remarkable, even for a Freehand.”

“Instinct,” the youth returned in a mumble, not sure if he was being praised or castigated, and looking down at his tray rather than at his companions, but losing interest in eating as he considered what else the woman must have told his teachers.

“Yes, well, thanks to Finnigan shouting the news down every corridor he came to, your ‘instinct’ is now common knowledge,” the potion’s professor snarked, seemingly annoyed about something, and Harry just accepted the role of whipping boy as usual.

“And it is a great relief to many,” McGonagall defended her pupil sharply, drawing his attention; she narrowed her eyes at Snape in warning before she smiled at Harry.

“We may only hope that your training thus far has been sufficient to defend against any who might wish to follow Aleyn’s path.” Dumbledore provided the frank middle ground.

“Potter can defend himself,” another unexpected voice joined the conversation in an earnest observation from Draco Malfoy.

The headmaster looked over his glasses at the youth, who looked directly back, even surprising his house master with his candidness.

“May I ask how precisely you know this, and how you knew that Harry was a Freehand?” the old wizard took his lead from the younger.

Malfoy looked across at his lover, a glint in his eye that worried Harry, and he was smiling a knowing smile when he turned back to Dumbledore and replied, “I was the one who told Potter what he was, I worked it out from the reports in the press, so I decided to find out how much he had worked out for himself. As to my knowledge of his defences, I have been testing his skills since the beginning of term.”

“Sparring,” Harry added in quickly at the deliberately vague explanation, “in the Room of Requirement.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Ron asked, clearly hurt by his exclusion.

Harry struggled to find an answer, and it was Draco who once again came to his rescue.

“I didn’t exactly give Potter a lot of choice in the matter, but he needed a greater challenge than the mademoiselle’s mind games, and I chose to provide it,” Malfoy drew all of the redhead’s fire from a confused, but grateful partner. “I can only speak for myself, but ‘sparring’ with my rival was not something I was prepared to discuss with my friends either, they wouldn’t have understood.”

Harry wasn’t sure if Draco was enjoying playing word games as he heard nuances in his lover’s tone that were meant just for him, or whether there was more to the diversion. He could have spoken up then, told everyone present about the attacks, had Malfoy expelled and probably worse, but he didn’t want to. ‘Sparring’ he had labelled it for public consumption, and sparring it would stay; the rest was erotically private, and he hid a smile behind his cup as the thought of it and the sight of the tousled, but authoritative Malfoy made him think about their next ‘sparring’ match: one day he’d work out his own motives, and then maybe he’d talk to his friends, but until then, the pleasure of the act was enough to keep his silent and eager for more.

“I’ve been casting spells for a while,” Harry decided it was time to offer some information of his own, “but I’m not very accurate. We discovered the thing with the wand by accident.”

“You didn’t look too bad yesterday, considering,” Hermione let her opinion be known.

“In order to satisfy any safety concerns, I suggest, Harry, it would be best before the end of term for you and Draco to provide those of us responsible for your well-being with a demonstration of your sparring techniques,” the headmaster laid down the law.

The responsible Gryffindor just nodded, and the rule-breaking sex maniac took a large gulp of tea and wondered how the Room of Requirement would interpret that requisite.

~

Although Harry had initially been pleased to be seeing the four people with whom he wanted to speak, he became increasingly aware of the difficulties in mixing several different agendas. He wanted to say thank you to his head of house, but what he wanted to say was very personal and he feared embarrassing her, as well as himself, so that matter had to remain for another time. Then there was the half-hidden hurt look on Ron’s face, that Harry knew would be on Hermione’s as well if she hadn’t been such a good diplomat: he couldn’t be just the best friend and try to make things better with all the teachers around, especially Snape.

The potion’s professor himself was not someone to whom Harry had any desire to say more than a few words (especially since Harry had gathered slowly that he was annoyed about not having been told about Harry’s new status), but he got the feeling from the looks passing between him and his house pupil that Draco probably did want to talk, but was in the same situation as he was. And finally there was Dumbledore, who wasn’t really saying much of anything; Harry hadn’t pursued the guilt he saw in the old man, despite a growing need to make it better. Eighteen months since he had screamed and shouted in the privacy of his mentor’s study had brought him a long way, and he had grown accustomed to the grey areas where previously infallible adults could make mistakes, and he understood some of the burdens the ancient wizard carried far better than he sometimes wished to: he knew he couldn’t stop the man blaming himself, and the selfish part of his psyche didn’t want him to, since it had been the headmaster’s responsibility to assure the calibre of his staff, but the rest of Harry, who saw similar burdens in his own future, didn’t like the quiet pensiveness of his mentor.

Despite these frustrations, Madame Pomfrey’s hospitality had everyone sat down and chatting while drinking tea and eating toast (and anything else he could pinch off Harry’s plate in Ron’s case), and the new morning felt pretty good to the young Freehand after his narrow escape. The dynamic between the Slytherins and the Gryffindors became lightly adversarial when Quidditch was mentioned, since there was all to play for this year in the House Cup, but with Dumbledore and Pomfrey as referees, no fouls were called; well, Harry didn’t think there was going to be anything difficult about the conversation, but Professor Snape had other ideas, and he’d been saving up a real bludger.

“Of course, Gryffindor really can’t hope to win this year, considering the handicap they are now facing,” Snape interjected with a relish that was aimed directly at Harry, “now that their seeker (not to mention captain) is out for the second time in three years.”

“What?!” Ron got to the incredulity first, but everyone around Harry’s bed was echoing the sentiment.

“Surely a Freehand is not allowed to play, Headmaster?” the oily man applied for adjudication swiftly and with satisfaction.

Harry held his breath and looked to his mentor for defence; Quidditch was one of the best parts of his life, and he didn’t want to lose it again. Albus Dumbledore did not answer immediately, and the consideration in his face worried his young mentee.

“On the face of it, your conclusion may be correct, Professor,” the headmaster answered slowly, and Harry’s heart fell through the floor; Hermione slipped a hand into his and immediately offered her support, while McGonagall and Ron showed equal fervour in disputing the conclusion. Snape and Malfoy were the only ones smiling glibly, and Harry decided to glare at his rival. Dumbledore held up a hand for silence and continued, “Harry’s ability to cast spells without a wand introduces the possibility of an unfair advantage on his part, and although I am sure in my own mind that Harry would never consider cheating to win, his abilities do leave him open to such accusations. However, I do not believe it would be fair to penalise Harry. There are anti-tamper charms on all Quidditch equipment to inhibit any chance of deception, and I am sure Madame Hooch will be able to provide us with assurances that Harry is no more likely to be able to interfere with the game than any other enterprising young wizard.”

Snape’s face was thunderous at that conclusion, but his lips were fixed in a tight line which told a more buoyant Harry that he wasn’t going to contest the decision right then. Malfoy didn’t seem bothered either way; Harry knew full well that he would have taken the advantage if it had been offered, but his manner showed ease as he turned to Harry and goaded, “You’ll need all the tricks you can get this year, Potter.”

“Never needed them before,” the youth quipped back, crossing his arms and grinning smugly as he thought about the victory to which he had led his team last year.

“Well, on that note, I suggest we have taken up enough of your time, Boys,” Professor McGonagall announced, and then Harry noticed Madame Pomfrey hovering by her office and checking her fob watch.

No-one challenged Madame Pomfrey on her territory, and everyone started to stand up and offer their goodbyes. Harry took his leave of each of them, sad to see them go, but at the same time realising why his nurse had said he needed another’s days bed rest: his stamina was running out and the fuzziness in his head that good company had chased away was coming back. By the time all was quiet and his carer collected his tray, he was staring at it, and letting his thoughts decide slowly what to do next.

“Another sleep for you, Young Man,” Madame Pomfrey decided with one look; Harry smiled at her and nodded.

He laid down as she went to see to Malfoy, closing his eyes, but listening to the interaction with half an ear.

“May I read?” Draco asked as the chink of his tray was removed.

There was silence for a moment, Madame Pomfrey was considering.

“Alright, but I want you to have a sleep after lunch,” the woman concluded.

“Thank you.”

{Disarmingly charming when he wants to be,} Harry thought as his mind pictured the smile that would be being employed just then; it wasn’t a look he had often received himself, Malfoy went more for open lust or dominance when he smiled at him, but he had used such a look a couple of times when trying to get his own way when nothing else had worked, and Harry liked it.

“What are you grinning at, Potter?” the cool enquiry didn’t quite work, and Harry risked a brazen smirk at his lover before he’d really opened his eyes as he heard the door close behind their nurse.

“I’m alive and I’m not blindly obeying the whims of a madwoman,” the youth returned lightly, but then sincerity caught him out as he continued, “mainly thanks to you.”

For a moment, Harry saw his admission surprise and maybe, he thought, embarrass his companion, but then the widening of his eyes and the quick glance away were replaced by the glibness he knew better, and Draco replied, “I couldn’t have that insane woman spoiling my fun.”

“How did you know the words of the binding spell?” Harry asked as the edge to his partner’s mood reminded him that they weren’t friends.

“Lets just say I’d considered more possibilities than bedding you,” Malfoy taunted with a wild look in his eye that could have inspired more than just conversation if they had been in private and feeling stronger.

“So I make a better opponent than slave?” the young man teased back, letting his libido out for a small walk.

“I don’t need binding spells for that,” Draco laughed.

The flippancy was a protection, and Harry used it as freely as his lover; he was too tired for any deep thoughts, and his relationship with his arch rival was something that got deeper the more he considered it. They’d saved each other, worked together to bring down a mutual enemy, and that was as complex as Harry wanted to get right then. He was still grinning as he deliberately turned on his side, away from his companion, and buried himself under the covers, but it was with easy concepts of base pleasure that he filled his mind as he let sleep approach.


	11. A Time to Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Harry to share his secrets with his friends, well most of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

Harry slept most of the day away, dozing through hushed conversations between Pansy, the Slytherin appointed delegate who appeared after lunch, and Draco. He eavesdropped some of it, and his lover did aim a few choice comments at him, well aware that ears were listening, but he rose to none of it. The Slytherins could discuss him to their hearts’ contents as far as he was concerned, and he liked the unsure note to Pansy’s voice as she discussed his Freehanding with Malfoy; he stored up a few ideas for mild revenge on those who had helped to make his last few days hell, but after his attack on Aleyn, he had almost exhausted his store of vengeance, and his thoughts were of mild pranks.

Except for calls of nature and food, Harry remained curled on his side and caught up with the sleep he had missed the previous night. He fell asleep completely before tea time, and didn’t wake until the next morning, when he found that his fellow patient was gone. Madame Pomfrey, a little surprised about the enquiry, had informed him that Malfoy had been fit enough to leave before dinner the previous evening, and had then distracted any thoughts Harry had on the matter with a suggestion that he would be able to return to the general populace as well in time for Sunday lunch.

Ron and Hermione turned up shortly after breakfast, as he was finishing the packing of a small bag of his things for return to the tower.

“Mate, good to see you up and about,” Ron greeted, striding over to grab the inconsequentially light holdall, adding, “let me take that.”

Harry didn’t argue, he was still considering how to broach the Malfoy subject with his friends, and was not about to cause pointless friction.

“Feeling better?” Hermione asked with a welcome smile.

The youth nodded, and replied, “Yes, thanks. I don’t want to fall asleep every five minutes anymore, which is a big improvement.”

“Y’know we hadn’t noticed the difference,” Ron teased, elbowing his companion in the ribs, but Harry wasn’t going in for flippancy that morning, and he returned, “Yes you had, and thanks for being worried. I’m sorry I’ve been so secretive this term.”

“You’ve had a lot to deal with,” Hermione offered generously, coming over and patting her friend on the arm.

“But I should have told you what was going on,” the youth continued. “I just didn’t know how to.”

“All in the past, Mate,” Ron sounded like his girlfriend had been rationalising things for him, but he pressed on enthusiastically, “We know now.”

Harry nodded slowly, wondering if he would share all of Aleyn’s assault with his best friends; it certainly wouldn’t be one of the manly conversations of the dorm room, but he thought he might. Malfoy was going to remain a secret.

“I have some more to tell you,” he confessed as he decided that he wanted to share his thoughts with the two people he had trusted for longest; he was given enquiring, concerned looks in return, and it felt like the right time, Madame Pomfrey wouldn’t mind them taking up her ward for a little while longer. However, it wasn’t to be, because a stranger walked into the room; the woman was tall and slender, and elegantly dressed in a trouser suit, her hair tied back in an efficient bun. Her face was less striking than Aleyn’s, but from the knowing look in her eye which he had seen many times in the impostor’s, Harry knew this had to be the real empath, Genevive Yneme.

The woman looked directly at Harry and smiled, a soft, honest expression, and greeted, “Hello, Harry, I am Genevive Yneme, I hope you do not mind me coming to see you.”

“Not at all,” he responded automatically as his manners kicked in, but he wasn’t sure if he minded or not. “These are my friends, Ron and Hermione.”

Unsure hellos were exchanged, and the woman crossed the room to join the little group.

“I am here to take Aleyn to a place of safety,” the empath explained smoothly, “but I was hoping that I could speak with you before we leave.”

“When?” Harry asked, still uncertain about the much more professional woman than the one with whom he had associated her name.

“We leave in a few hours, and I must prepare Aleyn for the journey, so would now be alright?”

Ron showed his disappointment at that suggestion, and Harry considered refusing on the spot, his best mate was more important than a conversation with a stranger, but Hermione was more polite, and she stepped in quickly, “We’ll meet you back at the tower, Harry.”

The decision made for him, Harry just nodded at both women and gave Ron an apologetic look.

“Talk to you later,” he promised both his friends, and they took it as a dismissal.

The youth watched the pair turn and leave, regretting the postponement, and his new companion demonstrated a directness as she observed, “If you do not wish to speak with me, I will not be offended.”

“They’ll wait,” Harry answered, and didn’t bother to hide the mild inconvenience the empath would have sensed anyway.

Mademoiselle Yneme nodded her acknowledgement of the statement, and then redirected, “Well, it is a beautiful day for December. Would you mind a walk by the lake?”

“I need some fresh air,” he agreed and began to walk.

~

On the way to the big blue expanse of lake, Harry had shared nothing but genteel conversation with his companion as she trod carefully with his feelings. However, as he stared out at the lake, the stranger by his side, he decided to cut through the politeness.

“What do you want?” he asked, focusing his courage for the question out at the water.

Silence was the only reply for a moment as he succeeded in taking his companion by surprise, but then he heard a small sigh, and her much less poetic accent told him, “Although I specialise in helping those with powers similar to myself, I am trained to counsel anyone. Professor Dumbledore asked me to speak with you about Aleyn’s use of you, if you wish to talk with me.”

“She used her body to get what she wanted,” Harry snarled as his defences came up. “Why should I want to talk to you about it?”

“Sometimes it is easier to talk about difficult things with a stranger,” the woman did not even sound phased by his anger; he turned and looked at the understanding expression that was waiting for him and couldn’t decide if he wanted to walk away. “I will not push you if you do not wish to talk, but I sense that you are conflicted on this matter. Say what you want to.”

Harry just stared at this woman he did not know from Merlin, holding back his thoughts with confusion. His nightmares were where he came to terms with his terrors, not in the presence of some professional. Yet her dark eyes were not like Aleyn’s, they held no seduction, just the offer to listen, and his emotions betrayed him.

“I was attracted to her,” he let slip, the hot flush of mortification being met by an encouraging smile from his companion, so he continued with a deep breath, “and she said that it was alright, that it was useful for the training. I believed her.” He looked away from the reassuring silence which made no judgement, back to the equally unopinionated lake, foolishness his main sin. “She made all the boys hot and bothered, I didn’t think it was any different, in fact the others were jealous because I got to spend time with her. I thought the way she touched me when we were working was just her technique, she kept talking about my body and how I had to listen to it to use it.”

“You blame yourself for letting her seduce you?” Yneme picked up on the guilt Harry was feeling.

“Legally I’m an adult, I made my own decision when she made advances,” he confessed to the heady consent which had opened the way for the full assault.

“No you did not,” the counsellor told him earnestly, her tone surprised. Harry glanced across at the woman, unsure of himself again, and she enlightened, “Aleyn told me exactly what she did; the moment she put the fire potion on your lip, you were under her control. She used her influence to bring out your desires.”

“I still...” Harry trailed off as he thought about the intimate caress which he had freely given.

“You did what Aleyn wanted you to do.”

“Why did she do it?” he asked vehemently, his eyes beginning to sting as the degradation came back.

Genevieve’s look was apologetic as she met the emotion calmly.

“People like Aleyn, those with significant powers of the mind, sometimes find that their strength gets in the way of their other faculties. In Aleyn’s case, these problems manifested themselves when she was a teenager, her behaviour became erratic and she became paranoid. Her parents chose to ignore the problem, and hope she would get better; they are very rich, and they isolated her in their chateau, which merely compounded her sense of difference, and skewed her sense of right and wrong.”

“Skewed her sense of right and wrong?!” Harry accused, his hurt and shame culminating in anger. “She hasn’t got any sense at all. She tried to tell me it was alright, that what she was making me do was good for me. She even got angry because I didn’t like it. She’s mad, she should be locked up and they should throw away the key.”

The youth was yelling, and his pain echoed out across the lake, being absorbed by the expanse.

“I am sorry, Harry,” the counsellor still sounded absurdly understanding and he walked away from her thin apology. Yet she wasn’t finished, and he came to a halt as she explained, “I was taking Aleyn to a secure facility when she over powered me. I chose to act too late, and you have suffered for it. However, you have also succeeded where I failed. Aleyn now understands what she was trying to do, she knows it was wrong, and she wishes to be treated. She will reach the hospital this time, she wants to go there.”

“I don’t care what she wants,” Harry spat back as he heard the tone of the do-gooder, “I just want her out of my reach or next time I’ll kill her.”

He succeeded in shocking his companion with his fury, he rocked his own foundations with the murderous warning as well, but he knew that he meant it; he had no compassion to spare for the heartless bitch who had pursued him beyond all bounds. He didn’t want to talk anymore, he recognised the chasm on either side of which he and the counsellor now stood, and in which he didn’t think he’d find any answers: his nightmares were still the best place to which to relegate Mademoiselle Aleyn de la Folle, and with a final glare, he walked away.

~

Ron was sat in the common room when Harry stalked back into the tower his rage still all over his face. It wasn’t one of the manly expressions, but it did the same job as, when the young wizard headed up to the dorm, his best friend followed quickly behind. With Ron at his back, Harry felt better already, but he was dismayed to discover that the dorm was occupied by Neville, who was lying on his bed, reading.

“Longbottom, out,” the redhead decided to take charge, and when six foot something of Weasley told you to do something, you did it; Neville closed his book and dived out of the door, shutting it as he went.

“Thanks,” Harry managed as he turned to his friend where they had come to a halt in the middle of the room; his anger was running out now, and he was so glad of the completely untrained concern he saw in Ron’s eyes.

“What’s the matter, Mate?”

“Genevive, that is, Aleyn made me have sex with her to get rid of my spell barrier, and the real one thought it’d be better if I understood her, that is, Aleyn,” came out in a rush, and relief swamped any embarrassment Harry felt about the confession.

Ron looked shocked, his mouth opened and closed a few times, and Harry held his breath as he waited for a coherent reaction.

“Merlin, Harry, you never get off easy,” his friend sympathised, clearly unsure what to do, and he asked awkwardly, “When did it happen?”

The natural reaction was strangely comforting to the youth, because he saw his immediate feelings echoed, and they encouraged a deeper set of emotions. He moved to his bed and sat down as the strong memories made his knees go weak.

“Last Monday, when I thought I’d fallen asleep, I hadn’t,” he explained as Ron joined him on the edge of the mattress; his voice quavered as he decided to share details, but he wanted someone else to know, and if it had to be anyone, it had to be Ron. “She drugged me, and tied me down in this circle she’d set up, and then she used a fire potion on me to get me to do what she wanted. Afterwards, she tried to make me forget, but it didn’t work and I remembered on Friday. She wanted me as her slave for everything.”

Harry began to shake as the nearness of Aleyn’s success hit home; his anger had had tears which he had only just held back, but the horror of the telepath’s madness left his eyes dry. The youth buried his head in his hands, silent after his confession.

“Is there anything I can do?” Ron asked, his voice small and out of his depth.

“You’re doing it,” the youth answered, looking up and across through his fingers and his fringe; he looked away again quickly, preferring the floor, but he was glad of his best friend’s presence.

A knock at the door disturbed the unsteady silence into which the boys fell.

“Go-,” Ron started, but as a head came round the panel, he stopped; Hermione looked worried, and that emotion doubled as Harry met her gaze.

“Neville said you were up here, can I come in?” she requested.

Harry nodded, and the young woman swiftly crossed the room and sat down the other side of him to her boyfriend.

“What did that Yneme woman say to you?” the girl questioned, her defences for her friend in her voice.

“Wasn’t her really,” Harry dismissed, going back to floor staring. “I just realised that there’s someone else I could kill besides Voldemort.”

He knew looks were passing over his head and he just waited for the dam inside Ron to burst; it wasn’t very fair of him, he knew, letting his mate do the enlightening, but he didn’t have the words. He heard the guilt and anxiety in Ron’s tone as he blethered, “Aleyn raped Harry.”

“I don’t think they call it that when a woman...” Harry hooked on to the least important aspect of the message as he protected himself from Hermione’s gasp of shock, but didn’t finish the thought.

“Oh Harry,” the young woman reached out a hand to him and he looked up at dampening eyes. “It doesn’t matter what they call it. Have you told anyone else?”

“Don’t need to, Aleyn did that. She’ll probably tell anyone who’ll listen: apparently she’s seen the light and wants to confess everything,” Harry let out some of the shame he was feeling in the derogation, but it didn’t amount to much, and he had more to say. “Genevive said that the fire potion had control of me from the moment Aleyn used it, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about it. I did everything she wanted me to.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Harry,” Hermione was much more vocal than her boyfriend had been, and she was trying not to cry. “That awful woman.”

Harry’s emotions were tied up in knots, and his eyes were dry as the mess just left him feeling cold. His barren thoughts were glad of Hermione’s grief, it was the release he couldn’t find, and he sat up and faced it. His confused stare was the last straw for the young woman, and the tears began to flow. Harry pulled her into his arms and buried the first sob into his shoulder; the untainted emotion ran through him, and he smiled as it performed the function of that which alone he was incapable. He rocked his friend, absorbing her weeping in place of his own, growing stronger again with every keen.

Ron didn’t say or do anything while his best friend and his girlfriend worked through her shock, and he was looking somewhat bemused about what had been going on when the pair finally parted. Hermione reacted to him with embarrassment, and wiped her eyes as she sat back, saying, “What am I doing?”

“Thanks for caring that much,” Harry dismissed the girl’s thoughts of inappropriateness.

Ron’s only reaction was to hand over a handkerchief, which Hermione accepted gratefully.

“Thanks for listening,” the youth told them earnestly.

“I’d do more than bloody listen if they’d let me near her,” the redhead in Ron came out very suddenly, and his face changed from disquiet to thunder.

“That’s what scared me the most;” Harry didn’t raise his voice, but his comment cut right through the explosion. “I could have killed her on Friday. They say it gets easier every time, don’t they?”

“Stop it, Harry!” Hermione scolded, “And you Ron Weasley. No-one is going to kill anyone. It was horrible, but it’s over now.”

“Yes it is,” the youth looked at his friend and took her more literally than her open-mouthed expression said she had intended, but he just smiled at her; Harry knew he wasn’t going to get over the trauma as quickly as his smile suggested, but Hermione’s plea for perspective had told him that he had dwelt on it long enough for one day. Aleyn de la Folle would be relegated to dark moments, where she belonged. Both his friends looked at him suspiciously, so he explained, “I think we’re all too old for chocolate frogs and chit chat to make it all better this time, but what’s done is done; she’ll be gone soon, and I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not going to run away to the hills again?” his best friend asked bluntly, steam still threatening to come out of his ears.

“No,” Harry laughed: he hadn’t even considered that idea. “I’m not planning on running away, exactly the opposite in fact. Now that everyone knows about me, and I’m not away with the fairies thanks to that tea, I can start getting involved in school again, no more pussy-footing around; I have a few thoughts on how to pay the Slytherins back for last week, and I’m sure Snape is going to land me with a bundle of potions practicals.”

“He did look really annoyed about not knowing,” Hermione made a face.

The youth smirked; Severus Snape’s obsessive persecution of him was a minor irritation to Harry after the psychosis of the mademoiselle.

“I’ll just set Professor McGonagall on him,” he quipped.

“He won’t stand a chance!” Ron took the hint and joined in.

Hermione finally grinned as well; her eyes said that she had more to say about Aleyn de la Folle, but Harry was glad when those thoughts were put aside. The look of calculation that replaced them could have been worrying if the girl had not continued to grin like a Cheshire cat, and she elucidated on her thoughts with, “So, about these Slytherins...”


	12. The Upside and the Downside to Revealing Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a Freehand, Harry has to fight for one of his favourite pastimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

The conniving trio of Gryffindor Seventh Years dived into schemes and wild plots for repaying their school rivals for the jinxes that had been cast the previous week, so deep were they in conversation that it was only by chance that Ron noticed the time; well his stomach actually noticed the time, and then he checked his watch, which told them lunch was about to begin. The tower was empty as they dashed through the common room: Sunday lunch was not something any pupil missed willingly, and they ran full pelt to the Great Hall.

En route, Harry thought about very little except not missing the best meal of the week, it was only as he came to a smart halt and walked the last few steps into the large room that a few facts hit him. The hall was full of chatter and rumbling stomachs, everything that Harry was expecting; what caught him off guard was the speed with which that sound died to nothing as first one, then a dozen and then a school-full of pupils noticed him. He realised that he hadn’t spoken to anyone, or even bothered to check the way in which they were looking at him since he had come out of the infirmary: the silence, and the number of eyes on him reminded him that the dynamics of his relationship with the rest of the world had changed yet again.

Harry wasn’t sure what he was looking at, well, alright, one table was obvious; however much they tried to hide it, the Slytherins were worried, and some of the younger ones looked frightened as they stared openly at last week’s target. The rest of the school were less easy to judge, and Harry felt the redness creep up the back of his neck, over his scalp and onto his cheeks as he failed to decide what to do. He might have turned and left as fast as he had arrived, but his best friends, who had been moving at a slower, Hermione pace, came up behind him and blocked the retreat.

Harry met a few gazes: the Ravenclaws were looking at him like he was a specimen for an experiment, and seemed upset when he interrupted their analyses by catching their eyes; the Hufflepuffs were a mixture of awe and disquiet, and to a pupil, looked away if he tried to hold an eye-line; the Gryffindors knew their famous house mate far better, and although the younger years looked like they sided with the Hufflepuffs, his fellows did not avoid his enquiring stare. It was Lavender who smiled at him first and then of course Parvati joined her; that was plain confusing, given the wall of breath-holding that was between Harry and his lunch. The boys of the Seventh Year in his house took the hint from the girls, but they were less subtle. Seamus stood up, and then Dean and then Neville, although his other two dorm mates did not seem to know why they had stood up, because they were looking at Seamus for a lead; Harry also watched him, since he was as much at a loss as his friends.

“Glad you’re not a squib, Harry,” the Irish boy intoned solemnly, but then his face broke into a grin and he slammed his hands together enthusiastically.

Longbottom and Thomas joined in immediately, and then the silence disappeared into equally overwhelming applause. The Gryffindors were all on their feet in seconds, and the Hufflepuffs followed as though electrocuted out of their seats. A majority of the Ravenclaws also joined in, although only about half stood up, and even a few uncertain Slytherins, covering their backs, unenthusiastically clapped. The sound snowballed from there, as cheering and table banging joined the applause, and Harry took a step back right into Ron as the wave of support ran over him, shocked, but with a warmth starting inside his chest.

“Wrong way, Mate,” his best friend whispered and pushed him gently forward again, and he kept pushing so that their group headed towards the Gryffindor table.

Stunned was putting it mildly, but Harry didn’t impede the grin which slowly spread out across his face; it started as an embarrassed smile, but soon lost the modest edges as his reaction just caused more whoops. The youth had not really participated in the end of war celebrations, even at the awards’ ceremony where he’d been given the Order of Merlin, he’d been in a kind of daze, thinking more about fighting the magical-blocks as they had been deemed then, not about the politely clapping officials, or the crowd who had gathered outside, and he’d had only sympathy and long looks since. He’d also ignored the Prophet and its theories about him, therefore, he’d never thought very deeply about how others felt about the fall of the Boy Who Lived. That his fellows had invested enough concern for him to result in such a tremendous outflow of joy at his good news made Harry’s heart beat very fast and threaten to burst with emotion. He wasn’t going to cry, boys didn’t cry, but his green eyes were glistening as Ron put him in his seat and he looked round at all the happy faces.

“Well done, Harry,” Neville told him, slapping him on the back.

“Knew it had to be something special,” Dean agreed from the other side of the table.

The youth just smiled at them, and the other Gryffindors.

Gradually the cacophony died down, mainly due to the fact that Professor Snape stood up and glared at those who persisted, but Harry was more than satisfied with the grins of his fellow house mates, and a few Hufflepuffs, who were bouncing in their seats to make eye contact; he continued to grin back and wondered if this was the best meal he had ever had.

~

Harry was on a high for the rest of the day: he didn’t think about Aleyn, he didn’t think about the pile of homework he had to catch up on, he didn’t even think about Malfoy, in fact, he pretty much just basked in the congratulations from everyone he met. He hadn’t been left alone since sitting down in the Hall, but for once, he didn’t mind the fame and had found himself having long conversations with people who hadn’t said more than a few words to him all term.

His entourage had installed him in Gryffindor common room after a very satisfying lunch, where Hermione and Ron had abandoned him to the ‘adoration’ as Hermione had put it, and he hadn’t moved from the best seat right next to the fire since then. He’d been persuaded to give demonstrations by some over-excited third years, and had found quickly that they were far more impressed with the raw energy approach than any finesse he could add with spells, and since that wasn’t very much or very successful, he was happy to use brute force for a few materialisations, hair-raising and object moves. Despite having fun, the rush had begun to become tiring after about half an hour, and Harry welcomed an interruption when it came.

“Showing off, Mr Potter?” Professor McGonagall startled the enrapt lower years, but he had seen her come in, so he just looked up at her amused chastisement and returned with a smile, “Yes, Professor, it’s fun.”

“I’m sure Madame Pomfrey would not like to hear that you had been tiring yourself, Harry,” the woman continued more seriously, and worried a few of the first years who still didn’t know her well enough to judge if they were in trouble or not.

The youth nodded, and then apologised to his fans, “Sorry, end of the show.”

The head of house smiled at her pupils as they began to disband, but Harry knew by the way she was hovering that she was not merely watching her will being obeyed. He said goodbye to his companions, but as the last of his open-mouthed spectators found something else they should be doing, he returned his attention to his tutor.

“Harry, may I speak with you?” his school guardian asked cordially, making it perfectly clear that the request was not compulsory.

He smiled again and answered, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Tea, my office?”

Harry thought that Professor McGonagall actually looked relieved at his acceptance. He stood, and they walked swiftly to the exit, all eyes on them, and as they left the fat lady behind, his companion observed, “You seem to have gathered quite a following.”

“It’ll die off by the end of term,” Harry spoke with experience, and added with a rueful smile, “I won’t be that interesting compared with Christmas.”

“Well do not let those youngsters tire you out. You have to attend to a lot of other matters as well.”

Harry nodded again, his smile disappearing as the responsible woman reminded him that life had in fact become more complex once more.

“Is that why you want to talk to me?” the youth enquired, letting his euphoria dribble away to sensible levels.

“Partly, yes,” the professor returned carefully, and thoughts of Aleyn stifled the rest of Harry’s good mood: he fell silent and concentrated on the route they were taking; his companion allowed him his preparation.

Harry didn’t focus back on his head of house until he was presented with a cup of tea, and then he watched her while she returned to her own seat behind her desk. He sipped his drink and waited for the purposeful set to her features to bear fruit.

“Harry, I know that this term must have been very difficult for you. I can only apologise for trusting you to Mademoiselle Y-Folle’s care, and I hope that in future, I shall be here when you need me,” the woman began like the earnest Gryffindor she was.

“You _were_ there,” the youth offered back, and surprised his companion, so he explained, “I didn’t know there was anything wrong with Aleyn’s teaching until I remembered what she did,” he looked into his cup for a moment, stifling any hurt with the memory of his guardian’s arms around him, holding him tight, and he re-met her concerned gaze. “I didn’t need anyone till then, and I know it was you who held me. Thank you.”

“That is my job,” the professor returned humbly.

“Not many teachers would consider taking on an overloading Freehand as part of their job description,” Harry smiled gratefully.

“You are far more than merely a Freehand to me, Harry,” McGonagall fixed him with her firm observation, and clarified, “You are first and foremost, my student, and until you leave this school, you are under my care, overload or no overload.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry agreed, knowing that he had a faithful protector and that his thanks had been accepted in their own way.

“Now, please tell me if you think me too impertinent,” the woman began again, “but as your house mistress, it is my duty to see that you are alright.”

“I’m going to be alright, thank you,” the youth interrupted again. “I’ve spoken to Ron and Hermione about everything and that helped, but I was rather short with the real Mademoiselle Yneme.”

Behind her stiff exterior, McGonagall seemed relieved again, and Harry concluded that his explosive talk with the counsellor had been reported in at least generalities.

“The mademoiselle did mention that she thought the conversation had gone badly,” the professor admitted. “We, that is Professor Dumbledore and myself, were concerned about your reaction.”

“I don’t ever want to see Aleyn again,” the youth returned flatly, biting his tongue about the strength of his feelings towards her as he remembered Hermione’s reaction to talk of killings.

“Understandable,” his teacher nodded, and then her tone changed again as she enquired, “Harry, it is possible for you to skip the last week of this term if you would prefer more time to recover: the Weasleys have said that you may join them early.”

“No, thank you,” on that point Harry was sure. “I’ve missed enough school this term, academic and social, thanks to everything, and I don’t want to miss the Christmas celebrations.”

“Very well. In that case, we must discuss in what capacity you will rejoin your year.” The woman looked pensive for a moment before she went on, “Mademoiselle de la Folle has informed us that she began to drug the tea she supplied almost as soon as you began to take it. I believe it is fair to assume that your low marks so far are a symptom of this. However, they are also indicative that your academic studies are behind the rest of the year in what is the most important year of your academic career. I would therefore suggest that you may need to do some catch-up work.”

Harry made a face: he disliked theory at the best of times, but he nodded his agreement of the assessment, since he knew there were large chunks of his lessons that he just didn’t remember, especially in the last week, which was a blank.

“I will speak with your other subject masters -,”

“Masters?” the youth clarified.

Professor McGonagall nodded, and explained, “Professor Lupin has agreed to fill the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts for the remaining two terms of this year.”

Harry grinned: Remus was the last of the Marauders, and the youth didn’t get to see enough of him as far as he was concerned.

“I am glad that you approve,” his companion returned, and she didn’t smile, but there was amusement in her eyes. “He and I will be sharing your Freehand tutelage. As I was saying, I will speak to your other subject masters, and we will formulate a study plan to allow you to catch up. I am afraid you can expect a lot of homework during the holidays.”

The youth groaned, but decided that it couldn’t get much worse, so he asked, “And until then?”

“If you feel well enough, you will attend classes with your fellow students, and may I suggest that you attempt a few small spells before term end. However, Defence Against the Dark Arts will not begin again until next term, since Professor Lupin will not be joining us officially until then, so I suggest we use those periods to begin your catch-up work.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry muttered.

“My Boy, I remember a difficult discussion two years ago when you stated that you wished to be an Auror. I must say that you have done extraordinarily well against difficult odds, but I made you a promise then, and I mean to keep it, and that means hard work for both of us. An Order of Merlin can open many doors, but not into Madame Bones’ domain unless you qualify, so if you wish to sit on your laurels, please tell me, you have certainly earned it,” McGonagall meant what she said, but she clearly didn’t approve of resting on prior achievements.

“I hadn’t even thought about it,” the youth returned honestly, which gained him a hard stare; however, that look softened when he continued, “In July I was looking at a life without magic, then Malfoy turned that on its head with my little revelation, and it all became about keeping secrets and learning to defend myself because someone might try to bind me. Now everyone knows, and I don’t really know where I am, but thank you, I’d like to keep my options open.”

His tutor seemed satisfied with that answer, and Harry was quite impressed that he’d made sense.

“It will all be worth it, Harry,” the professor promised; her student nodded and took a very deep breath.

~

If there was something worse than lessons where everyone was watching you to see if you could cast a spell and then sharing opinions of your ability with their friends, it was being surrounded by the eight beaters from the four house Quidditch teams in full kit, with bats, all with glints in their eyes that said they were gunning for you, even your own team. Beaters were a special breed of sportsperson: they had a lust for blood which the rest of a team didn’t possess, and as Harry looked round at the assembled bludger experts he had a feeling that the next half hour was going to hurt.

“Right, people,” Madame Hooch bellowed, and drew everyone’s attention over to where she was standing with all four heads of house. “Mr Potter needs our help to prove that he can’t interfere with the Quidditch equipment. To you and I, that means we will be playing a game with only the bludgers. As well as Harry, I want four of you in the air at a time, one from each team, in five minute intervals. The aim of the game is to knock Harry off his broom, not to maim, comatose or otherwise dismember, so aim at the body, any head shots will mean you will be going back to the changing rooms sooner than you expected with fifty less house points. No high flying, and do not go outside the areas marked by the flag, the ground has only been cushioned that far. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” came back the shout, and Harry _knew_ it was going to hurt, but he gritted his teeth and thought about the alternative of having to step down from the Quidditch team, and that stung far more than any bludger.

Madame Hooch had organised the trial with military precision: she had spent the half hour before the beaters had arrived making sure that Harry really could cast a halting spell on a bludger without anti-tamper spells, which had hurt at first until he’d got the spell right; now the point was to put him in situations where the only way to avoid pain, injury, or other humiliation was to use said spell, pushing him to a limit which would prove one way or another if he could tamper with the equipment. It wasn’t Harry’s idea of how to spend a good Monday lunchtime, especially since it was drizzling, but it was all in a good cause.

Adjusting his arm pads, just to make sure he had at least some protection, Harry then got on his broom, and with a wave from Hooch, kicked off. The freedom of flying again was fabulous, and the youth indulged himself with a quick burst of speed from one end of the marked area to the other.

“That’s not going to save you, Potter!” came from across the field, but he just grinned back over his shoulder at Julian Chantry, the beater he had hand-picked for the Gryffindor team that year: the comment was, mainly, made in jest.

However, jest became sporting concentration as Madame Hooch yelled, “Alright, off you go,” and blew her whistle.

The bludgers entered the fray, and Harry was not surprised as the first one came at him from the direction of the current Slytherin beater. He flew out of its way easily as it headed towards Ravenclaw’s bat, but only narrowly avoided being the bull’s-eye for Julian. The youth pulled up short as the heavy projectile whizzed past his shoulder, gave his beaming team mate a glare and then ducked low as the Ravenclaw beater got her first chance for target practice.

Bludgers had never been a serious problem for Harry during Quidditch matches: he’d always had good beaters defending him, and he normally managed to outrun any that got through. However, with four beaters all aiming at him, he learnt just how vicious a breed they could be. It was Hufflepuff’s beater who got him first; the youth hadn’t known that house had such ruthlessness in them, and had always thought she seemed like such a pleasant girl before, that was until he’d seen the satisfied look in her eyes and the cry of success as she’d winged him with a hook of the bludger from a low angle. The thump on his thigh had not been enough to unseat the Seeker, but it had hurt, and he knew he was going to have a bruise there in short measure. That was only the beginning of his troubles, because Julian took advantage of his distraction from the glancing blow, and his aim was far more devastating. Harry had landed on the spongy grass, flat on his back, coughing as all the wind went out of him and with a stinging impact on his chest. Hooch blew her whistle, and his team mate flew down and offered out a hand. With a groan, Harry let himself be pulled to his feet by the Cheshire cat that Chantry had become.

“Are you alright, Harry?” their referee called, and he nodded as he walked over to reclaim his broom. “Changeover!”

The youth kicked off again with the four other beaters on his tail.

Harry landed on his back a few more times, on his front, very nearly on his head if it hadn’t been for a quick righting charm from Professor McGonagall, and there was one spectacular moment where he had nearly flown full pelt into the stands when he’d ended up hanging from his broom upside down. He was aching all over, and he was beginning to hate bludgers to the point where exploding them had come to mind; Harry had cast the stopping spell, and a few diversionary ones, all to no effect on the remorseless projectiles. Yet the evidence was not enough for Professor Snape, who clearly wanted the youth disqualified from Quidditch, and so after twenty five minutes, Harry was very tired, quite dizzy and covered in mud, but still flying in pursuit of insurmountable proof that he was not faking his lack of tampering ability.

“All eight up!” Hooch ordered, sounding like she too was reaching the end of her tether with the Head of Slytherin. “Harry, you’re dealing with four bludgers now.”

“Great!” the Seeker muttered to himself, and then had to speed up as one of his large brown nemeses swung around after him.

The flagged off area wasn’t all that large when filled with nine flyers and four projectiles, and very swiftly, Harry found that he had very little room to manoeuvre. If he dived from one ball, at least two others came after him as the fresher beaters closed on their quarry, and the bludger that hit the bouncy field and came back up at him from below was just plain unlucky. However, all impacts that had gone before paled into insignificance as Harry came up out of a desperate dive and found that he hadn’t lost the initial bludger, and that all three other projectiles were coming at him from diverse directions as well. He didn’t have enough control after the descent to swerve and his weary brain could not work out the escape route anyway. The exhausted Seeker came to a halt where he was, gripped his broom with his legs, put his arms up over his head for protection and bellowed the stopping spell for all he was worth.

There was no impact.

Gingerly, Harry uncurled and looked around him and his heart fell through the floor as he was faced with four spinning balls inches from his head: he had succeeded.

No more Quidditch.

Yet all was not as it first seemed, and a voice from the ground called, “If you would care to get out of the way, Harry, we can release the bludgers.”

The youth looked down at the four heads of house; Snape was stood there, his arms crossed and fury in his face as his objections fell at the last hurdle, but the other three and Madame Hooch were all pointing their wands, one at each bludger. Swiftly, Harry headed to earth, just about landing without falling over, and turned in time to see the four missiles slamming in to each other where his head should have been and rebounding off at random angles towards the beaters.

Professor McGonagall was beaming as she crossed the pitch with the other staff to where Harry and his fellow pupils began to gather.

“A worthy try, Harry,” she told him, but added with her own form of glee, “but I believe that we can all be satisfied that you do not have any more advantage on the Quidditch pitch than any good Seeker.”

“Undoubtedly,” Professor Sprout nodded, and was joined by Flitwick in her agreement.

They all looked to Snape, who looked like he’d found a bad smell as he grudgingly replied, “Potter’s abilities are as limited as usual.”

Harry ignored the jibe, and beamed as he was slapped on the back by three of the four pairs of beaters; the Slytherins glared like their head of house.

“Alright then. Thank you for your help, everyone, you may go and get changed. Harry, report to Madame Pomfrey before you join your next class,” their referee dismissed, and, unusually buoyant for someone who could pass as an escapee from a barroom brawl, the youth headed back to the changing rooms with his team mates.


	13. Caught Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to demonstrate Harry's skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

Apart from a minor mishap when Harry had managed to set fire to his transfiguration’s text book, and the desk and Ron’s notes and very nearly Hermione’s hair while trying valiantly to make a bowl of water give off flames, Tuesday had gone rather well; Professor McGonagall and his friends had been very understanding about the incident, although they all kept well out of his range after that. The youth was on his way to the Room of Requirement for what he hoped would be a meeting with Malfoy, although given all the interest in both of them since Aleyn had been so publicly beaten, the chance that his lover would risk Slytherin suspicions was an outside one. Still, Harry was feeling optimistic and was letting his imagination out for a pornographic jaunt as he strolled along the corridors.

However, his thoughts came to a grinding halt when he heard a call from behind him, “Harry, I am glad I have caught you.”

“Professor,” the youth turned and smiled in what he hoped was a pleasant way at his house mistress, “is there something the matter.”

“No, no,” the woman returned, as he waited for her to join him, “it is just that company is always more preferable to being alone when on the way somewhere, don’t you think?”

“Where?” Harry asked, somewhat bemused by the information.

“The Room of Requirement, of course, My Boy. That is where you are going, isn’t it?” the professor looked surprised, and then her eyebrows raised at Harry’s shock. “At the end of your potion’s class, Professor Snape did tell you about he, Professor Dumbledore and myself observing your practice session with Mr Malfoy this evening didn’t he?”

The pupil’s heart began to beat very fast as he thought about Malfoy’s trap the last time he’d walked into the Room of Requirement and his hopes about his lover’s presence did a complete u-turn.

“Professor Snape all but chased me out of the room when I didn’t hand in a potion at the end of the practical,” Harry returned, suddenly caustic as he suspected deliberate oversight on the part of the snide teacher.

“Then I suggest we make haste to discover why he omitted to tell you,” his companion’s face showed similar suspicions, but Harry knew they were probably far more innocent than any Snape was considering.

With no other choice, since he clearly wasn’t going to be able to make an excuse and run the other way, Harry fell in beside his tutor and they hurried to their appointment. The headmaster of Hogwarts was stood in the corridor looking very much like a colourful version of one of the statues when the two Gryffindors arrived, and Harry had the impression that the only reason he moved then was to greet them.

“Good evening, Harry, Professor McGonagall,” the old man nodded with a smile, and before either could reply, his eyes danced over their shoulders and he called, “and to you, Draco and Professor Snape.”

Harry turned and was presented with a fairly triumphant-looking Snape and a sour, almost worried student; Draco hid his emotions fairly well, but his eyes were darting around between the three members of staff, and he was clearly trying to calculate his way out of the trap his head of house had set. Losing out to the evidence on the Quidditch pitch, Harry knew that Snape was not happy with him, but the fact that he was willing to involve his favourite in his quest for something to pin on Harry Potter was quite a shock to the youth: it made him wonder if the professor had thought all the possibilities through.

“Shall we go in?” Dumbledore called the group to order and offered Harry the first entry.

Stifling his libido was something which Harry did very badly these days, but stomp on it he did as he reached for the door. He had no idea how he was going to explain away a bed and ropes and all manner of other interesting items if the room responded to his imagination as it normally did, so the young man closed his eyes and thought very hard about the catapult, which had been the last training aid he had used that could be shared with company. Still, he didn’t fancy his chances with Malfoy almost at his shoulder, and his brain ended up winging it with a beg to the room, ‘Please no, please no, please no.’

Harry really didn’t want to open the door: he turned the handle, but couldn’t bring himself to push the panel in, not with his head of house on one side and his headmaster looking over his shoulder. It was Draco who faced their mutual disquiet and shoved in the heavy oak. Harry opened his eyes a slit and couldn’t hide his sigh of relief as he looked at the chamber within. He wasn’t sure if his beg had been heard, or whether Malfoy’s requirements had been saner than his own, but what lay within looked, at least superficially, like a good place to spar, both magically and physically.

“Were you worried about something, Potter?” Snape questioned as the group entered.

“Occasionally the room has presented us with unexpected tests to challenge Potter’s skills,” Malfoy cut in quickly, looking far more confident than he had a few moments ago.

“Catapult gave me a black eye one night,” Harry told the absolute truth to back up his lover, he just didn’t add the fact that he’d been the one who’d pulled the release leaver.

“What on earth were you using a catapult for?” Professor McGonagall enquired, not so obviously sceptical as her colleague, but still sounding somewhat incredulous.

“I was practising a physical barrier,” the youth explained, and offered, “want to see it?”

“Yes, thank you, Harry,” Dumbledore nodded serenely, showing no signs of suspicion or anything else that Harry could judge either.

“Okay, Malfoy lets set it up like we did the last time I used it,” Harry began to think on his feet, and he stepped out into the open centre of the room. “Give me a few seconds then try and get through.”

The youth kept half an eye on his watchers for a moment, wondering if this was going to convince anyone, but he had little choice but to start the demonstration, so he closed his eyes and concentrated on reproducing the barrier which he hadn’t used since it had failed him so dramatically. It wasn’t difficult to focus his will any more, the place inside which turned it on and off was easy to find, especially with Draco stood only a metre in front of him, but forming it into what he wanted was actually getting more difficult the more he learned, and the more complex his concept of what he was doing.

He saw the wall in his mind, and formed it, trying to push away all the discussions about his skills that he had had with Aleyn; the talks had all been theoretical and difficult to understand, and since the truth had come out, the youth had been considering that they had been designed to confuse. The wall took a few moments to make sense, but Harry had a very stubborn brain when it came to compartmentalising his experiences, and knowing he’d succeeded, he opened his eyes again. Malfoy was looking at him intently, waiting for a signal, and Harry had to hang onto his concentration when he stared back into those grey-blues.

Slowly, he nodded, and tentatively, his lover reached out his palm and felt forward for the barrier. When he found it, the youth actually looked quite surprised, and he smiled, placing both hands on the hard air. Harry gritted his teeth, not out of effort in the barrier creation, but against the lovely feelings that were running through him as he worked magic in the presence of his partner. Draco leaning into the demonstration, flexing his sport-trained body was a particular distraction, but the youth kept reminding himself of the three staff members who were watching them.

“Impressive, Potter, but what’s it for?” Snape rammed home the situation even if Harry’s brain wanted to wander off into libido heaven. “Can it stop magic like Mademoiselle de la Folle’s production?”

Harry knew a deliberately barbed comment when he heard one, but it didn’t stop it from doing its job and pushing all his buttons; he turned his head and glared at the professor, which had all the effects the triumph in Snape’s eyes said it should have had, as his barrier evaporated, and with a shout of surprise, Malfoy stumbled forward. Harry had enough presence of mind to try and catch his failing companion, but Draco had been pushing quite hard against the wall, and his momentum came smashing into its creator. Unable to stop themselves, the pair crashed down onto the padded floor.

Draco landed on top of Harry, and for a stunned moment, they both looked at each other.

“Boys, are you alright?” Dumbledore questioned, and the pair glanced up at their watchers; the old Headmaster was looking at them with concern, but McGonagall was glaring at Snape, whose face said he had achieved his ends for the moment.

Hastily, both young men set about scrabbling apart, but where as Harry concentrated on squashing any signals that were waking up his arousal, Draco seemed to have presence of mind, as he answered his house master’s question.

“Potter had no need of barriers to stop magic, since until recently his permanent block stopped all spells,” the Slytherin responded as he stood up, however, at the black look that both warring professors gave him, he added, “Of course, in light of recent events, it is an area on which Potter will now have to concentrate more of his efforts.”

“Thank you, Draco,” Gryffindor’s defender was still bristling at Snape’s dirty trick, but played words games of her own as she continued, “Professor Lupin and myself will take note of that.”

The jibe did its work, and the oily professor crossed his arms tightly across his chest in disgust as he was reminded of the fact that he had been left out. However, the discussion had sparked some serious thought as well as word play in the dedicated woman, and she pinned Harry to the standing spot he had only just regained as she observed, “We must discuss exactly what Mademoiselle de la Folle was teaching you, Harry: I have grave doubts that she intended it to be useful.”

The young man just nodded as his own fears about the tutelage were reinforced and he thought about how much time he had lost.

“It is fortunate that you boys were working independently,” Professor Dumbledore observed, and Harry was sure he heard notes of guilt still in the old man’s tone.

There was no such sense of responsibility in his younger staff member’s voice as Snape started digging, “And fortunate that you did not share this information with that woman. Why was that?”

“I thought Aleyn worried about me,” Harry responded truthfully about at least one of his motives. “She kept telling me to take things one step at a time, very slowly, and I didn’t want her to worry.”

“For once your lack of discipline has worked in your favour,” the professor sunk his teeth into the guarded jibe.

“Harry has good instincts,” McGonagall launched another defence of her impugned student.

“Precious little of which we have seen so far this evening,” Snape quipped back.

Their subject gritted his teeth, but couldn’t stop the heat in his cheeks at the derision.

“Malfoy, let’s try something new,” he decided very suddenly as the sneer on Snape’s face pushed him a little too far: “a duel.”

That got everyone’s attention, and it was their headmaster who questioned, “Are you sure this is wise, Boys?”

Harry looked at his counterpart, who was not hiding the uncertainty of such a step, but the youth’s temper had won out against any caution, and he countered the hostility to the idea with, “Malfoy has been helping me work spells for weeks, it will be a good way to show you what I’ve been working on.”

Harry smiled at his lover, the spark for the game in his eyes, and he infected the grey gaze with ease.

“I won’t hurt him too badly,” Draco offered, the contest thick in his tone as he accepted the challenge.

“Nothing dangerous,” Professor McGonagall warned, as Malfoy drew his wand.

Harry’s grin grew wider as he faced his opponent, walking backwards to create an appropriate distance between them. He liked duelling, even the possibly deadly contests, which he had had in secret last year with this very adversary, had set his blood rushing in his veins. He was a warrior at heart, and the wide eyes and taut body in front of him told him that he was looking back at another of equal temperament. It wasn’t sex, but this kind of excitement was the next best thing. With relish, he raised his hand as he would have done his wand and paused in easy position as, almost leisurely, Malfoy did the same thing.

The fighters had done this many times in deserted classrooms, on empty tower roofs, so many in fact that they almost forgot that non-private duels had referees. Both were therefore a little surprised when instead of just waiting for a move from their opponent, Dumbledore stepped in and told them, “On my count of three, Gentlemen. One. Two.”

Harry saw the flash in Malfoy’s eye and he knew neither of them would be hearing ‘three’. Duelling had become such second nature to him that the youth was not sure what he was casting until he felt the magic run out from his body and he heard himself intone, “Advelo!” As soon as the spell was released, Harry tried the blocking charm which had saved his life on more than one occasion, but he found out that defence did not come as easily as attack. As he saw Malfoy successfully stop his hex, he was hit by the calculated assault of the silencing spell.

Harry glared at his adversary as he realised this was going to be a very short duel if he couldn’t intone any spells, and Malfoy grinned at him, pausing before his next spell. The Slytherin looked at his wand, which had just absorbed the bulk of Harry’s attack, and the youth knew he was doomed; this was not the childish duelling of their second year, where random hexes and jinxes had followed one after another, this was strategic battling: attack, impede, disarm, destroy. Malfoy had gone straight for disarm, and the look in his opponent’s eyes was so close to that which would have carried out the final blow, that it sent shots of adrenaline pulsing through Harry.

His defences narrowed in on his enemy, focusing on the contest; here there was only win or lose, and he wanted to win. Yet he could not cast. The end of Malfoy’s wand moved in slow motion, the flick which signalled Harry’s doom lasting far longer to his alert perceptions than to real time. It didn’t matter what spell was being cast, the youth knew he had to block it, and his will to win dwarfed all else. As his opponent’s thin lips moved, Harry found the seat of raw magic in his body, and let it out. The flash of light from Malfoy’s wand arced at him, and the Freehand pushed up a defence to meet it. Raw power met crafted spell between the two duellers, and they did not like each other. Harry’s force was not visible, but the lightening from Malfoy’s assault writhed in the air; like a snake coiling around a foe, the spell fought the imperceptible trap, winding over and over itself, sparking on the basic-level force Harry had released.

Harry stared up at the result of his efforts, unsure if he was looking at something beautiful, or dangerous, but as he saw the sparks fly, he came to the conclusion that it may have been both. The power had left his body, but like any use of the raw energy, he was still attached to it, and he came to the realisation that he couldn’t let go. Unlike other such overloads, however, the magical interaction produced new results, and Harry jumped as the sparks grew more intense, doing more than just causing bright spots in front of his eyes. His reaction was soundless as the silencing spell remained in place, but he took a physical step away from the contest as shocks ran through his limbs in time with the flashes.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Dumbledore asked him as his physical distress became more obvious.

The youth shook his head rapidly, and was proven correct as the next shock knocked him off his feet. He landed on his hands and knees, gasping soundlessly, and tried to stop the flow of magic. Then he curled over with a groan that couldn’t get out of his mouth as a stronger interaction turned his muscles to water. Something had to give, and it was Harry’s brain: he closed his eyes and objected to the feedback. The Freehand felt the resulting explosion in his body as well as around it, but he was at least glad to hear his own voice as the spells were destroyed by the shockwave.

As he opened his eyes again, Harry discovered that his body was not the only one to have suffered: Draco was on his arse, glowering at Harry; McGonagall and Snape were still on their feet, but the woman’s glasses were crooked and both their hair and garments were ruffled -- Snape had an expression similar to his house member, and McGonagall looked somewhat dazed, but non-judgemental; Dumbledore was the only person who seemed to have been left unaffected by the blast, not even a hair was out of place.

“Sorry,” Harry apologised sheepishly, righting himself halfway, into a sitting position.

“Very effective, Harry,” his headmaster disclosed serenely, and then with a raised eyebrow, added, “if somewhat unrestrained.”

The youth laughed.

“I think that maybe we should bring this meeting to conclusion,” Professor McGonagall joined the understatement club.

“Considering his disobedience of your order, Professor McGonagall, Potter should be punished,” Snape growled, adjusting his robes like he wanted to tear them.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry protested, climbing to his feet.

“It was an accident, Professor Snape,” his house mistress objected with him.

“Recklessness is no excuse,” the head of Slytherin countered, and his eyes challenged Harry to complain and gain more punishment for insubordination.

Smouldering, but with no come back of his own, the youth looked to his mentors. McGonagall also looked to her superior for a verdict. The headmaster gazed around at the hostile potions’ professor, his second in command, who looked like she was ready to burst, and even to Draco, who was now grinning whatever the outcome.

“I believe we can attribute this accident to experimentation, which is, after all, the nature of that for which Draco and Harry have been sparring,” Dumbledore decided, much to Snape’s dissatisfaction, and the relief of the others who gave a damn. “Thank you for your demonstration, Boys, and now I will concur with Professor McGonagall: Madame Pomfrey shall have words for all of us if either of you are delivered back to her after such a recent visit.”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry agreed, and smiled his relief: he’d had enough demonstrations for one lifetime.

The staff turned and headed to the door as a group. With authority’s back to him, Harry risked a glance at his lover, who had only just righted himself, and the look that was returned suggested that Malfoy was not exactly happy with being blown up. However, Harry just grinned at him, his relief at not having to go through with any more demonstrations being greater than his natural wariness of Draco’s instinct for revenge. Malfoy had not yet stowed his wand, and Harry paid for his lack of caution as his partner merely mouthed the words of a spell and sent it at him. The pinch that landed on his backside made Harry yelp, and he took a rapid few steps towards the exit; from her position at the door, Professor McGonagall turned rapidly back to her pupil, showing her concern.

“Trapped nerve,” Harry covered quickly, rubbing his thigh and up over the smarting piece of buttock.

The woman was not that naïve, however, and her glare landed on Malfoy; Harry glanced back at his lover, who was slipping his wand into his robes, a look of complete innocence on his face.

“Come, Draco, you have duties to attend to,” Snape came to the defence of his student, his stare daring the other head of house to make an accusation.

“Yes, Sir,” the Prince of Slytherin obeyed, and as he walked past Harry, he finished with a flash of eyes in a backwards glance just for him, “Be seeing you, Potter.”

Harry watched the back of his partner disappear out of the door and then re-met the dissatisfied gaze of his defender. Her look held more than reproof for the cover-up, she was worried about him and from the way she had followed Malfoy’s retreat, Harry guessed that his lover was a large part of her concern.

“I can handle him,” he promised earnestly; the eyebrow raise he received in return showed his professor’s doubt, but she didn’t say anything.


	14. Term Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's turn to make demands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [beren_writes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beren/pseuds/beren), my excellent beta reader, who found a few purplisms for me ::g::. This bunny bit me by accident, right in the middle of what I thought would be my first Harry/Draco fic, but my fickle brain decided I had to get this out of the way first. This fic is complete, but will be posted at increments over the next week.

Catch-up came in many guises: Harry found himself gathering homework to an amount that astounded even Hermione; in class, the youth struggled with N.E.W.T. level spells with the extra dimension of trying to work out how to wave a wand that was invisible (he tried odd tips of his head and strange expressions, but gradually discovered that his hands made for a decent substitute to wand movement most of the time); he also threw himself into school social life from which he had been excluded by different consequences of his new abilities, and there was a whole host of gossip on which to chew.

Friday came very quickly.

Harry stood in the dorm and stared at his half-packed trunk, wondering how he was going to finish stuffing it with the pile of books on his bed, and the clothes he was going to need before six that evening, which is when he and Ron and Ginnie were setting out for the Burrow (their cases were going by train the next day, but it had been decided that, to avoid any media hounds interested in the new Freehand, Harry and the Weasleys should take the Floo Network to the Burrow in advance of their friends leaving school). Harry had a full day ahead, all his free periods had been promised to Professor McGonagall to finalise the work he was to complete during the holidays, and the Christmas Lunch would take up the whole of the midday break, so that left only the morning and afternoon breaks, and he had plans for at least one of those.

Packing was bad enough, but Harry was not used to the small library he was now carrying around, and the large tomes left little room for other things like clothes and presents (not that he had bought much yet, he was planning on flooing to Diagon Alley to do most of his Christmas shopping and then Hedwig would be working over time for those people he wouldn’t be seeing before Christmas). Hermione hadn’t minded when he hadn’t had anything to give her when presents were being exchanged. She had kissed his cheek and hugged him and told him that she was just happy to have him in one piece, but the trip to Hogsmeade, or any other shopping was one more thing which had been lost in the mists of Aleyn’s tea, and Harry was determined to make good.

His mind wandering off into the dilemma of what to buy Hermione, or anyone else for that matter was not a distraction Harry needed, not when faced with his current jigsaw puzzle. However, he got another one; as he was deciding if he should pull everything out of his trunk and start again, Ron came bounding into the room, which for him was about three strides, and waved a brown-paper package excitedly under Harry’s nose.

“They’ve arrived!” he announced loudly, backing away, and Harry turned after the wonders of the anonymous-looking box like a donkey after a carrot.

He grinned widely and forgot all about packing as far more evil thoughts of revenge pushed the mundane aside, and the same kind of twinkle was in Ron’s eye. They crossed to Ron’s empty bed with the packet.

So far, the Slytherins thought they had escaped Gryffindor wrath, but that was because a chance letter from George and Fred had given Ron an idea which had sounded perfect to Harry. Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes were doing well, and the twins’ letters were always full of their latest gadgets. They had a new range out for Christmas, jinxed crackers, ‘for the in-law or dreary relative of your choice’. Slytherins weren’t relatives, well, maybe distant cousins, given that most pure blood families were related, but they were fair game after the torturous week they had given Harry.

Harry looked at Ron, Ron looked at Harry and they paused and both looked down at the sealed package on the bed: Harry’s revenge. A second was all they took, and then the two Seventh Years ripped off the brown paper of their parcel like they were still prepubescent. Inside was a wildly decorated box showing various consequences of pulling the devilish devices, from uncontrollable sneezing (which Harry thought very appropriate), to turning the pullers into a pair of turkeys for five minutes. Harry had been ready to buy the jokes, but Fred and George when contacted about the matter of a little revenge had been only too pleased to supply their wares free of charge, especially since at least one cracker had an advertising slogan in it, and so the plot had been hatched.

“Brilliant!” Harry breathed, thinking of the chaos on the Slytherin table when these went off.

“Are they here?” a female voice which didn’t sound anything like a responsible Head Girl announced that Hermione had noted the arrival as well.

“Come and see!” Ron nodded, holding them up proudly.

The young woman leant over her friends’ shoulders and actually giggled as she read the front of the box.

“Sometimes your brothers are really useful people to know,” she observed to her boyfriend, the glint in her eye being positively evil.

“We can get these to Dobby before first bell if we run,” the redhead checked his watch and bounced on his heels excitedly.

Harry turned to get his books for the day, and then saw the mess on his bed once more. Malfoy hadn’t drummed Gryffindor responsibility out of Harry completely, and he could see the puzzle of his trunk making them all late home if he didn’t make some inroads before school.

“Can you two go alone?” he mourned, “I have to get some of this sorted before Transfigurations.”

“No problem, Mate,” Ron patted him on the back and gave him a sympathetic smile, “just make sure you’re there for the payoff.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Harry grinned, and, as he stared at the heap of possessions, consoled himself with thoughts of Pansy with a Rudolph red nose.

~

Harry only managed to get about half his packing done before breaking about a dozen rules to get to class on time. So, to give himself as much time in the afternoon as possible, Harry executed his non-revenge plans in the morning. It had been a hectic week to such an extent that Harry had had no time for ‘solo’ training in the Room of Requirement, therefore, the youth had not managed to spend any time alone with Malfoy since the infirmary. The last time they’d been even speaking had been during the training demonstration, and since then they’d shared a couple of hungry looks across classrooms, enough to tell Harry that Malfoy’s frustration was growing in tandem with his own, but eyes (both suspicious Slytherin and protective Gryffindor, staff and students) were on them both, and so finally Harry had decided to take the risky initiative. From all the corner and shadow skulking both he and Malfoy had done over the last few months, Harry knew his lover’s movements fairly well, and he picked the storeroom rendezvous to wait for his quarry to pass on his way from Arithmancy to the cloisters where he would meet with the other Slytherins for the break.

When he heard the footfalls he wanted to hear, Harry’s libido stood up and took notice, and he peered through the crack of open door with anticipation. The youth didn’t think he’d seen a more delicious sight all week than Malfoy striding down the passageway, robe sweeping out behind him, hair falling over his decisive features in a way that made his watcher want to touch. Licking his lips, Harry opened the door, grabbed for any clothing that would give him leverage and dragged his lover into their private sanctuary.

Draco’s books hit the floor, and he reached right back to the body which pushed him up against the wall. Harry slid his fingers into the soft, blond mane and tipped his partner’s head a little before tasting the lips he’d been dreaming about. Malfoy’s mouth opened in response to the first brush of sensitive skin: then there was no stopping the fervent embrace as Harry realised he was starving.

A need for air was the only reason the instigator broke the deep kiss, but his lover pushed his shoulders away, and made him meet his eye line. His smile was full of lust, but his tone was serious as Draco observed, “Isn’t this a little risky considering that you’re Mr Popular now?”

“Don’t care,” Harry returned, rubbing himself against his partner so he was in no doubt as to how much he didn’t care. “I wasn’t about to go away for the holidays without getting my Christmas present. You do have something for me, don’t you?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened at the suggestions Harry put into his gaze, and the spark he generated in them both set the youth in motion. He would have preferred a whole evening to play with the idea of presents, but Harry was faced with a few minutes, so he chose to be direct. Draco’s trousers undid and descended with the kind of practiced efficiency that was still rare in Harry’s magic and he removed his glasses and dropped to his knees with a grin on his face that said he was more than satisfied with what he was getting and how he was getting it. His grin widened, as rather than cotton, he came nose to cock with naked genitals, and he glanced back up at his lover, showing his reaction to the pleasant surprise.

“Never did have much time for wrapping,” Malfoy shrugged, his own expression full of anticipation. Then he stroked Harry’s hair and actively turned his face back to the beginnings of his arousal.

Harry licked his lips again.

Taking what time he had, the youth reached first with his fingers, running the tips through the almost invisible hair on his lover’s groin: Draco purred: Harry smiled. Replacing the soft pads with nails, he let out his sadistic streak and made red lines from stomach to hip and then down Malfoy’s steel thighs. His expectation grew as his partner shuddered and the erection in front of him responded to the titillation. The knot of desire in his chest sent delight skirting through his body, and promised more if it was answered, but Harry hovered on the edge of full contact, savouring the delicious conflict of patience and wont. Malfoy, it became apparent, was not in the same type of mood, because he taunted, “You don’t want to play with your present?”

In response, Harry pushed one hand between Draco’s legs and made him pant as he touched the velvety skin behind his balls.

“I had to decide where to start,” the youth teased back, cupping the soft sacks and stroking.

That was enough for his patience, and Harry leant forward; as he kissed what he held, long fingers wound into his hair; he licked through half closed lips and the grip on his scalp tightened. The thrill of his action went straight to his groin, and the youth felt his own arousal grow as he watched a similar consequence next to his cheek. When he widened his mouth and drew the taste of his lover a little way in with a light suck, Draco gasped and shifted for him. With better access, and burgeoning arousal of his own, Harry began to lavish more attention on the sensitised scrotum.

The few weeks since their affair had begun had widened Harry’s experience considerably, and his new expertise had Draco moaning, literally in the palm of his hand before he had even addressed his now fully hard cock. The youth revelled in the erotic power he held, drawing out the kissing and licking until he knew Malfoy was on the point of begging him to do more. Of course, the Prince of Slytherin didn’t beg, he demanded, and the hold on Harry’s scalp was growing painful as he resisted its direction, but he wasn’t about to give in to it, he was in control. The contest had made the confines of his own trousers painfully tight, and, continuing to caress with one hand, the youth hastily used the other to release the pressure from his clothing. The sensitivity of his own penis as he freed it drew mercy from the lover, and he finally chose to meet Draco’s need.

Malfoy groaned and bucked once as, with delight, Harry dragged his tongue from base to tip of the erection; he paused, dancing his breath over the shaft and gave his partner time to draw back in the come that had threatened: it was too soon. Lightly, he kissed to one side of the straining head, testing Draco’s control; the murmur of pleasure and the shiver from his lover made his body pulse, but he also knew he could continue. Opening his mouth wide, Harry took the tip of the arousal inside, resting it on his moist tongue, but keeping the remainder of his mouth away: Malfoy’s will power was admirable as his exclamation said that he wanted more, but his thigh muscles locked under Harry’s palms and he did not move. Slowly, the youth brought his teeth down on the hot organ just behind the head, and let his breath run down it length. Draco spasmed in tiny starts as the sensations touched him, each one gaining a reflecting burst of passion in Harry. The wont could not be held off any longer, and the youth finally wrapped his lips around his partner and took him all the way into his mouth.

His lover groaned and trembled and bucked helplessly as Harry led him on where he wanted him to go. The touch of teeth brought shivers and catches of breath, tongue drew out long moans of bliss and lips along the shaft and back inspired panting that fired the perpetrator. The youth gloried in his power, and when his partner shot seed into his mouth, he claimed his present and held Draco possessively between his lips while his lover's body surrendered to the orgasm.

Once all was still again save for the rapid rising and falling of Malfoy’s chest, Harry deliberately slid his control from base to tip of the spent shaft, and closed his lips around a kiss onto the head. Draco shuddered again, groaning into the continued pressure, and Harry pushed him hard into the wall as he felt the weakness of his legs, but still he paused on the motion that said the prize was his. When he was satisfied, the master released his subject and, with the taste of his lover still in his mouth, moved to standing. Without pause, he shared that unique flavour with Draco, taking advantage of his open-mouthed recovery.

More by luck than design, Malfoy’s fingers were still entwined in his hair, and the limp hold gained purchase once more as his partner began to pay attention to Harry’s intense kiss. Just a week of abstinence had made both young men horny as hell, and Draco didn’t hesitate to unwind a hand from one set of hair and place it firmly down into another. Harry moaned through the caress as his erection was gripped soundly and his lover paid him back for his minor torture. Yet Malfoy wasn’t after the dangerous pain play of the bedroom, and after an aggressive squeeze, enough to take control of the embrace, he turned them around, pressing Harry’s back against the wall and began to work the throbbing arousal with his dexterous fingers.

Harry’s head went light as his need to breathe conflicted with the kiss, and he broke away from the warm lips, gasping in the air he required. Draco moved to his neck as he tipped his head back and Harry gave in to the heated growl that was in his throat as lights started to pop in front of his eyes. Slow, fast, soft or hard; Harry didn’t know what touch would be coming next, but he pushed his trousers and pants further down his legs to give his lover all the room he wanted to keep him guessing.

The mix was incredible. However, a shot of a different type of adrenaline ran right through Harry when a knock on the door and a rattle of the handle broke his reverie. Malfoy froze in mid stroke, his breath tight and alarmed as, despite the silencing charms on the sound going out of the room and a locked door, the disturbance coming in brought out the natural reaction of fear of discovery.

“Draco?” the call came from Crabbe just outside the door, and it killed the mood, even as it was quickly followed by a jibe from Pansy, “That’s a cupboard, you idiot.”

Malfoy sighed, or maybe he growled, Harry wasn’t sure, but the net result of the emotion he was expressing was that he let go of his lover and stepped back.

“They’re looking for me, I have to go, or they’ll be suspicious,” he complained, pulling up his trousers.

Harry watched as his beautiful lover rearranged his clothing, and, fuelled by the thwarted desire in his body, he decided that it was going to be a hell of a long holiday for his libido. Then an idea occurred to his steamy mind, and before Draco could head for the door, he grabbed him and pulled him close. Harry was a man of property, he owned his own privacy, and he had already arranged with the Weasleys that he’d be going to his cottage a couple of days after Christmas to focus on all the extra work he had to do; the thought that had come out of taking one step further on from that understanding suited Harry’s sex-drive very nicely. It had been a long term, and good, or bad, it had changed Harry Potter beyond anything he could have imagined. Freehanding was only one dimension, and as he held the enemy he did not think of in such simple terms anymore, he let out the dominant and devilish aspects of his personality that Draco Malfoy had cultivated. He smiled at the surprise and left-over lust on his lover’s face and instructed, “Two things, Malfoy: stay away from the crackers;” he kissed the twitch of lips which that information generated, hard and quick, before pulling back and finishing, “New Year’s Eve: 8pm: my cottage: be there or I _will_ come and find you.”


End file.
